


Meadow Grows Green

by shesasurvivor (starkist)



Series: Dandelions and Fire Mutts [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Getting Back Together, Mental Health Issues, Post-Mockingjay, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-05-05 18:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5386703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkist/pseuds/shesasurvivor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Putting yourself back together after falling apart is the hardest thing to do. But Katniss has always been a survivor... And maybe now she can even learn how to thrive. Post-Mockingjay, canon compliant, Katniss and Peeta healing and growing back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone. This is a story that I have put off writing for over three years. This is the story that defines why I love this saga as much as I do. This story is somewhat autobiographical, as I have tapped into my own process in healing and piecing myself back together after falling apart completely. How I've learned to adjust to living in the world after losing a sister and developing PTSD, and learned how to let myself love again. Some of you may remember a previous version of this story, The First Year is the Hardest. I decided to edit and repost the new version, though I'm leaving the original up for posterity's sake. It's taken me a long time to get to the point where I can write this story, but I think it's finally time.

The phone rings without end. I sigh and roll my eyes as I finally reach for it. _You have to pick up the phone_ , Peeta’s words echo through my mind. Maybe he was right. I’ve been ignoring it for who knows how long. Usually, whoever is calling will give up and finally leave me to my solitude. Not today, though. Just when the phone had finally fallen silent, and I thought I could finally return to the quiet numbness my days are now filled with, it only started ringing again a moment later. Whoever was on the other end wasn’t taking no for an answer. Probably Dr. Aurelius, I think to myself. He would know Peeta had delivered his message by now, and would be more aggressive about getting me to pick up than ever.

I grit my teeth, bracing myself as I lift the receiver to my ear. “Hello?”

“Katniss,” the old man says, the relief that he’s gotten me to answer his call at last evident in his voice. “How are you doing?”

I shrug, even though I know he can’t see it. At least, I hope he can’t. Who knows what kind of technology the Capitol installed in these houses in order to keep an eye on their victors?

“I’ve been better,” I say.

“Of course,” he agrees, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. It is, really. “What have you been up to since your return to District 12?”

“Not much.”

“I see,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact. I can’t help wondering what the point of this is. I know on some level what he thinks he might achive, of course, but how does he expect to help me when I can’t even answer with more than three words at a time?

“And Greasy Sae? Is she stopping by, like she promised?”

“Every morning and night,” I tell him. “With her granddaughter,” I add the last part in an effort to be somewhat more helpful. Instead I just feel more awkward.

“Good. That’s good,” he says. We fall silent for a moment, and I almost forget I’m on the phone at all as I stare at a point right below the clock on the wall in front of me.

“And Peeta…” he begins again at last, and this time the hesitation is a lot more apparent, “How do you feel about him being home?”

I stop and consider this briefly. “I don’t know. Okay, I guess.”

“Okay?” he asks.

“Okay,” I confirm. I know he wants me to go on, but frankly, I don’t have it in me.  To explain how I feel about Peeta’s return would require more energy than I think I have to give right now; I haven’t even really taken the time to figure it out yet myself. It’s only been a little over a day as it is. I’m glad, of course, but there’s something else there as well. Guilt, I think. And why I feel guilty is a can of worms I don’t even want to think about opening right now.

“Okay,” he repeats after some time. “I just wanted to check in on you. See how you were doing. I’ll have Greasy Sae continue her visits. And Haymitch,” he adds the last part, probably only because he’s technically supposed to. Both of us know Haymitch is usually too busy drowning his own sorrows in a bottle of whiskey to really be of much use. I still haven’t seen him since the day we returned to Twelve. “Please call me if you need to talk. If I don’t hear from you, then I’ll call you this same time next week.”

“All right,” I agree half-heartedly. I suppose there really isn’t much I can do to stop him. I still can’t figure out why, though, when this conversation didn’t seem all that productive. How could this possibly help?

“Have a good week, Katniss,” he says, and then hangs up the phone. Well, that was short. I hang up the phone myself, and then continue sitting there, staring at that same spot below the clock for what seems like hours. It probably is, I realize after a while. Time seems to have no bearing on me anymore.

When the room begins to grow dimmer from the setting sun, I realize I should probably move. I get up and wander to the kitchen, staring at the supplies that were left sitting on the counter. I have half a mind to prepare my own dinner for a moment, but as quickly as it came, the motivation to do so is now gone. I decide I should probably settle on the couch again until it returns. As I do, I can’t help wondering why I’m like this today, when yesterday I had gained such a spurt of energy, I had actually made it back to the woods to go hunting for the first time in months. I lean my head back to rest on the back of the couch and close my eyes. It doesn’t matter why. Few things seem to matter anymore.

After a while, I hear the door creak open. “Katniss?” Greasy Sae’s voice calls through the empty house as I hear them enter. I say nothing as she enters the room, followed by her granddaughter and then Peeta.

Peeta.

A surge of something I faintly remember from a previous life briefly courses through me, before being swallowed up in those insurmountable feelings all over again. He says nothing to me, but I can feel his eyes on me as I cover my own with my hands.

“Have you done anything today?” Greasy Sae asks me. Of course the answer is still the same one I gave Dr. Aurelius – not much. Unlike Dr. Aurelius, however, she leaves it at that, and begins preparing the dinner I had given up on. A small part of me wonders how she would have reacted to finding me at such a task. Would she be happy? Would she think I was showing some kind of improvement? Somewhere near me in the room, I can hear her granddaughter begin playing with Buttercup on the floor, probably with a string of yarn. I hadn’t even realized he’d moved--the cat hasn’t left my side since he returned last night. Peeta asks Greasy Sae if there’s anything he can do to help, and when she refuses, I feel him cautiously join me on the couch.

He still says nothing to me. He doesn’t even sit very close to me, from what I can make out. My eyes are still closed, refusing to allow more of the world in than I have to. Not until I’m ready, at least. I actually would like nothing more than to hide out in one of the closets for a while, but I know I’m not allowed to do that right now.

When Greasy Sae finally announces that dinner is ready, I open my eyes at last. I catch Peeta as he passes by me, his eyes flitting away from mine when he sees that I’m looking. Just like when we were in school, I think, before catching myself. I really don’t need any more bittersweet memories of the past haunting me today.

Dinner goes quietly, with Greasy Sae and Peeta making small talk. I don’t say much of anything, but try to at least seem like I’m paying attention to them, nodding in places where it’s appropriate. Greasy Sae tells of the activity going on in town; the way the former residents of District 12 are beginning to trickle back home, and the start of plans for reconstruction. I notice she leaves out the part about the mass grave in the Meadow. I feel as though I should be bothered by this implication that she thinks I can’t handle reality, but do I really want to hear more about that than I already know?

When dinner is over, she begins to clean up. Starting to feel a little guilty over allowing her to do so much for me without even an offer of help, I attempt to join her in doing the dishes. But when I fly into a rage over a spot on a teacup that won’t come off, she sends me away to join Peeta on the couch again. I stare at the wall, managing to get out a “goodbye,” and then, quickly, a “thank you,” when the party finally leaves. I sigh and again lower my head to the seatback behind me, when something registers in my mind.

“You’re still here.”

Peeta looks a little sheepish as he shrugs his shoulders. “Is that okay?”

“Sure,” I mutter, flopping my head back down to resume my staring at the ceiling.

“I can leave if you want.”

“It’s fine,” I mutter again.

He’s silent for a long moment. “I just…” he begins slowly, as though searching for the right words to say. A distinct sadness rises in me at this; Peeta never had to think about the right thing to say before. It always came naturally to him. Just one more thing to be angry about, I think.

“I didn’t really want to be alone tonight,” he finishes at last. I nod, not really sure what to say to this. I wish I had this problem, but even after – or maybe even because of - months of solitary confinement, I still find myself wishing everyone would just leave me alone. But if there’s anyone whose company wouldn’t bother me quite so much, it’s Peeta’s. Even despite everything that’s happened to us.

“It’s fine, Peeta,” I repeat. “You can stay if you want to.”

Out of the corner of my eyes, I see him nod his head thoughtfully. We fall into another one of those silences that seem to be becoming the norm for me for a long while.  Then, finally, I hear him clear his throat nervously.  “What did you think of the bushes?” he asks.

What did I think? To begin to describe it would be impossible. Stronger emotions than I can handle threaten to bubble up just from thinking about it. Of course, I think it was kind of Peeta to plant them. Kind in the way the old Peeta used to be. But the thoughts of what they did to him, and her, and everyone else I have ever cared about only reminds me again of how angry I am.

I don’t tell him this. “They’re fine,” is all I say, and immediately I can tell that he’s disappointed. This irritates me for some reason. I never asked him to plant those bushes. But Peeta chooses to let it go, and again looks thoughtful as he takes me in much in the same way he did yesterday. “Did you hunt this morning?” he asks.

“No.” I stare blankly in front of me.

Peeta frowns at this. “Katniss… I know we’ve been through a lot, but-“

“I talked to my mother, though,” I interrupt him before he can go much further.

“Well, that’s a good start. But still--“

“Why did you even come back, Peeta? To lecture me?” I snap, completely unable to mask the irritation in my voice. I turn my head sharply to face him. Who does he think he is, anyways? Wasn’t he the one undergoing counseling for months because he didn’t even know what was real anymore? What makes him think he has the right to tell me how to handle any of this?

Peeta looks completely taken aback. He drops his gaze, and a look of sadness mixed with some confusion crosses his face.

“Why? You know why.”

The comment, the same one he made to me in our first Games, catches me off guard. Can he actually remember that conversation? Has he made that much progress? It’s possible. He was recovering other memories while we were in the Capitol. I shake my head, partly because I don’t know what he’s talking about, and partly to clear it.

He studies me for a long moment before responding. “This is my home, Katniss. I have nowhere else to go.” And suddenly he’s on his feet, moving towards the door. I really didn’t mean to upset him. But of course I did.

“Good night, Katniss,” he says, and his voice sounds more tired than ever. The look on his face instantly makes me regret the entire way I’ve acted tonight.

“Stay,” I want to call out to him, but I don’t, and then he’s gone.

* * *

****  
  


When I wake the next morning, I realize I am in the same spot on the couch that I was last night. Apparently I had fallen asleep there sometime after Peeta had left. My neck hurts, probably from the position I slept in, and the memory of Peeta immediately puts me in a sour mood. The thought of him upset with me only makes me mad at him, and that puts me on the defensive. I’ve lost everything, everything, including my own sanity. Or what little I had left of it, at least. Why was I expected to be so considerate to anybody now?

Still, on some level I realize I’m not being entirely fair. It’s not as though Peeta’s life for the last two years has been all that great, either. And he would know a thing or two about losing sanity. But I’m so lost in my own frustration that I push the thought away. I decide to stay where I am, lying on the couch for some time. I’m not even sure how long it is, but the next thing I know, I hear Greasy Sae letting herself in for breakfast.

I sigh, and sit up. “Morning,” she greets me, her granddaughter trailing behind. This time, though, there is no Peeta to follow. I might be a little disappointed, but I refuse to give it much thought. Fine. Let him be mad, I think.

The morning is a repeat of dinner last night, with Greasy Sae starting breakfast while her granddaughter finds a way to entertain herself. I wrap a blanket around me while I try not to think about anything. Eventually, though, it dawns on me that Greasy Sae may suspect something happened after she left last night -- She would have stopped by Peeta’s before she came here.  His refusing to come over this morning would have tipped her off. Fair or not, I find myself becoming more defensive than ever at this thought. Neither one of them were taking into consideration how I was feeling.

I’m so caught up in being angry, that I don’t even hear the door open. I don’t realize anyone else has come in until he shows up in the room, looking unsure of himself, and refusing to look at me.

“Sorry I’m late,” he begins, addressing Greasy Sae alone, “I had some stuff to do.”

She gives him a toothy smile. “Better late than never,” she tells him. He returns the smile, and walks over to join her. This time, she accepts his offer of help, making a big to-do about how much her joints are bothering her today, but I can’t help thinking it’s probably because she knows it would be too awkward to make him sit over by me. I ignore both of them, and lay back down on the couch, attempting to fall back to sleep. I don’t even get up to eat with them, and try to drown out their conversation that drifts over from the table. I can feel the glances in my direction Peeta thinks he’s stealing, though. Afterwards, they both clean up as quickly and quietly as they can. Before she leaves, Greasy Sae tells me she put some leftovers by the stove if I decide I’m hungry later.

At last, I’m alone. Because I am hungry, I throw off my blanket and make my way over to the stove. I take the breakfast she left for me to the now abandoned table to eat it. As I do so, my eyes fall on the bow I had left sitting by the back door. I briefly consider going out to hunt. For some reason, I feel more up to it today than I did yesterday. Thinking it might help me clear my mind, I throw on my old hunting jacket, grab the bow, and head out the door.

Normally it wouldn’t take me so long to reach the rock in the woods, even in my dilapidated state. But this time, I wanted to avoid passing by the Meadow. I end up taking the long way around, circling back to my regular path as soon as I’m sure I won’t catch sight of the gaping hole that used to be the Meadow.

I don’t know why I continue to head to this place. There’s no point to it now. Still, old habits die hard, and before I know it I find myself sitting on our old meeting place again. I know Gale won’t be coming back. This time, I don’t even bother closing my eyes. He isn’t coming.

For the first time, I allow my mind to drift back to the last time I saw him. Was it fair to be so mad at him, to hold him responsible for… for losing her? I don’t know. I stare out at the vast hills and valleys that spread out on the horizon. The memory of that morning before the reaping flashes through my mind. It’s too painful to even think of how much has changed since that fated day. I close my eyes; I can’t help wishing things could just go back to the way they were before the Reaping stole my sister, my best friend, my whole life. Despite everything I did to protect her, I never really got her back after that.

It’s impossible. Things will never be the same again. So why even think about it? As if trying to escape from the ghosts of the memories haunting me, I push myself off the rock with a jerk. Maybe it’s irrational, but I need to get away from this place. Somehow, I know I will be swallowed whole by these thoughts if I don’t leave now. I lurk around in the woods for a little while, managing to get a couple of squirrels before I start feeling weak again and decide to head back home. I still take the long way back, despite how weak I feel, because, more than ever, I want to forget everything and go back to feeling numb. Seeing the Meadow now would make that impossible.

But as just as I’m about to slip through the back door of my house, a familiar voice calling my name stops me. It’s Peeta, and he’s making his way over to me. I stop, bow slung over my shoulder, and wait, trying to meet his eyes, but only managing to look somewhere to the side of his head. “May I come in?” he asks when he finally reaches me. Still unable to meet his eyes, I nod, looking down at the floor instead. He follows me in as I drop the bow in its spot next to the door, and deposit the game bag on the kitchen counter. I really don’t know what to do, or why he’s come over. Wordlessly, I take my spot on the couch, and Peeta follows. We sit in silence for some time as he takes me in, and I try to look anywhere but at him.

Finally, he speaks. “I’m sorry.”

“About what?” My eyes dart over in his direction in confusion.

“Everything. Last night,” he says. “I should have known bringing that up would still be too hard for you to talk about.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Peeta,” I say. This was so like him, to apologize when I was the one who had done something wrong. It takes me a moment to realize how significant that is, but when I do, I can’t help it. My mood brightens.

Peeta is shaking his head. “No. It really was thoughtless of me. Of course that would be a sensitive subject for you. It was wrong for me to bring it up.”

It’s my turn to shake my head. “It’s okay, Peeta. Really.”  

He nods, and we fall into silence again. Then, Peeta takes a deep breath, and looks like he’s about to say something important. Oh no, I think, here we go. Because whatever Peeta is about to say, chances are I’m not ready to talk about it yet.

“Katniss,” Peeta starts slowly, hesitation evident on his face, “there is something I’d like to ask you.”

I try not to cringe, but I’m not sure how well I hide it. The last thing I want to do right now is talk about any of the number of things he could possibly bring up. No matter what they are, it’s inevitable they’ll eventually lead to the question of whatever we were before the Capitol stole him. But Peeta surprises me with what he asks instead.

“Will you go for a walk with me?”

I must look confused, because he actually grins when he sees it. I’m not sure what to make of this request, if it’s even a good idea. I feel better after sitting down, but I’m still feeling weak. But for some reason I find myself nodding. This probably isn’t something Peeta should do on his own, anyway.

Before long, we’re out the door and on our way up the path leading out of the Victor’s Village. As we approach the remains of what used to be our town, I’m beginning to rethink this. From what I remember of our time in the Capitol, memories didn’t seem to set Peeta off too much, but I don’t know what he’s like now. What if he sees something that triggers something, and I don’t know how to handle it?

We make our rounds of the ruins in relative silence. The carts I saw on my first trip around the district still dot the road all the way through, still growing greater in number the closer to my old house we get. Peeta is taking in everything with an expression I can’t read. Every once in awhile he makes an unintelligible noise, but other than that it’s almost impressive how little he reacts to it. We’re almost to the end of the Seam, when I stop in my tracks. He looks at me curiously, and I shake my head. “I don’t want to go over there,” I tell him. Once was enough.

Peeta’s eyes follow my gaze, and I can tell when they land on the gaping hole that is the Meadow, the carts surrounding it, the workers dumping remains into the pit. He turns back to me, his expression questioning. “Is that... what are they doing?” he asks.

My eyes drop to the ground. “It’s where they’re putting... everyone.”

Peeta says nothing, and when I glance back up, he’s looking at the site with a mixture of sadness and fascination. I understand the feeling, really I do, but it’s become too much for me by now. “Let’s go,” I finally say.

He nods, tearing his eyes away from the work site, and follows as I lead him away. As we make our way back to what used to be the center of town he catches up to me. His hand brushes against mine, and surprised, I can’t stop my head from turning to see if it was on purpose. But his face is as expressionless as ever, his eyes focused straight ahead. I shake it off, deciding it had only been an accident, something that happened as he worked to match my pace. Besides, Peeta seems to be focused on something. My mind is too hazy to try and concentrate on what it might be, though.

When we reach the town square, it takes me a moment to realize that Peeta has come to a stop. I turn around, and find him staring, bewildered, at everything surrounding us. Nothing of the familiar scenery he grew up with has remained, I realize; it’s all gone. Not that it’s an unfamiliar feeling for me, but it’s different with Peeta somehow.

After a moment, I speak. “Peeta...” I begin slowly.

Peeta shakes his head, as though he’s just woken up from being asleep, and can’t remember where he is. “I’m okay,” he mutters, but he doesn’t look it. Still dazed, he moves forward slowly, his eyes hard as he takes the sight in. I really don’t know what to do now, so I just watch him silently, following him as he makes his way around the wreckage. The workers are still here, lined up around the square; I see them watching us. Thom is still working over on this part of town, too. He nods his head in greeting in my direction, but other than that, they leave us alone.

At last, Peeta comes to a stop at the foot of a particular mound of the rubble and freezes. He makes no move to indicate what he’s thinking, no sound, no expression. I’m really at a loss over what to do now, so I only continue to stand there helplessly myself. In the back of my mind I can feel something nagging at me, trying to jar my memory and help me figure out what’s going on. For some reason, though, I can’t let the thought break through. I’m just about to move forward and gently shake his arm back to reality, when he slowly sinks to his knees. His hands scoop up piles of the rubble and it trickles back out through the cracks in between his fingers. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, just barely loud enough to pick up. I’m about to ask him what he’s apologizing for, because I really can’t think of anything he’s done that would make him do so, when I notice the tears that have begun to fall from his eyes.

Now I’m really at a loss. I don’t know what to do, what to tell him. “What are you sorry for, Peeta?” I cautiously ask him, because it’s still the only thing I can think to do.

“It’s my fault this happened to them,” he answers, but I’m not entirely sure he’s saying it to me. I’m so bad at this kind of thing; all I can do is look around nervously. For the first time, I really take in our location. And suddenly it clicks for me: we’re at the site of where the bakery used to stand. His former home, I realize. I can just see the charred remains of the apple tree I had collapsed under that day he gave me the bread. How could I not have realized it? I think. Because really, the fact that he’d want to go to the bakery should have been my first instinct.

I feel awful for not thinking of this myself, but Peeta’s actions make a lot more sense now. I’m still at a loss over how to handle them, though. Apparently going through it yourself doesn’t necessarily make you better at dealing with it in other people. If anything, it makes it harder. I have no words of comfort I can offer him. What would even make him feel better? Is there anything that could? Probably not, just as nothing could make me feel better over losing Prim. Prim. Why did this have to happen to her? Between her and my father, and my mother off in 4, I remember just how alone I am now.

Except I’m not; not really. I have Haymitch, as absent as he may be currently, and Greasy Sae and her granddaughter... and Peeta. And really, I have my mother, too. She just isn’t here in 12 with me. Which is a lot more than Peeta can say for his family. They were  entirely wiped out by the war. Cautiously, I approach him. I slowly sink to the ground next to him, and, sitting cross-legged, I can only watch him, silent as I let him have this time to deal with what I have already dealt with: the first time it sinks in that the people you love are really and truly gone.

“I miss them,” he says.

I nod. “I know. I miss Prim, too.”

He nods also. “That’s why I brought you the bushes.”

Of course it was. Only Peeta would think of something like that. I feel awful, though, because I spent so much time thinking about my own loss, it never occurred to me that he did it because he understood how it felt. I wish there were something I could do for him in return, but I can’t think of anything.

“They were beautiful, Peeta.” I feel a little awkward admitting this for some reason, but I can’t think of anything better to say. Besides, it seems to make him feel a little better. He gives a small smile, anyways.

“I’m glad you liked them,” he says, but I can tell his mind isn’t really on the flowers. He stares out across the way, I think looking at what is the remains of the apple tree. He squints his eyes, as though trying to remember something, then says, “That’s the tree you were under when I threw the bread. Real or not real?”

“Real,” I say. Peeta lets out something like a sigh and continues to study it. I take this chance to really look at him for the first time since he came home yesterday. His blond curls had been singed at the explosion at the City Center, just as my own hair had, but they seem to be growing back. Likewise, patchwork skin that mirrors mine covers his body. His seems to be healing faster than mine, though. Probably because while I was trying to starve myself to death, he was actually eating, trying to recover.

Those long eyelashes of his are still there.

“Why did you come back, Peeta?” I ask again. “There’s nothing holding you here. You could have gone anywhere.” It hurts to think about, but it’s true. Coming back to 12 was never a guarantee for him. If anything, he would have been better off staying in the Capitol, working with Dr. Aurelius on regaining his memories and maybe picking up a fancy job there. Just as Gale had done. And my mother. Really, I was the only one confined to 12 anymore.

Peeta takes me in for some time before he finally sighs and answers. “I told you, Katniss -- I have nowhere else to go.”

“That’s not true,” I can’t help saying. “You could go anywhere in Panem now, if you wanted.”

Several emotions at once seem to cross Peeta’s face; I’m not sure what to make of them. He chooses his next words slowly, deliberately. “That’s true,” he agrees, “but...” his blue eyes seem to focus somewhere far away beyond my shoulder, “I guess I just feel like this is the best bet I have to ever recover the memories I haven’t been able to yet.”

I nod. “Because this is where your family was.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, then looks at me as though he’s considering something. “And... “ he begins, but then stops short.

“And?” I prod him.

Peeta takes a deep breath before he continues. “And... because you and Haymitch are the closest thing I have left to it, now.”

I can just barely fight the tears that well up in my eyes at this admission. Partly because I didn’t think Peeta would ever feel this way again, and the fact that he does is nothing short of a miracle. But also because I understand all too well what he means. I bring my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them, looking back towards the stump of the apple tree. I say nothing, but I can feel Peeta watching me.

“You don’t think I’m a mutt?” I ask after a while, my voice small. I feel silly asking this, but I can’t help it. I need to know.

Peeta looks out across the way. “Not anymore than I am,” he tells me, his voice pained. He’s right, of course. Fire mutts. I made the same observation at that meeting in the Capitol. He continues. “I’m not saying I won’t have my moments, though. As much as I wish I were, I’m not entirely past the hijacking.” I nod. “But Dr. Aurelius has helped me a lot in the past few months. I remember...” he pauses, looking me up and down, “most of what really happened. Enough to know you would never hurt me. Not on purpose, at least.”

For the first time, I’m able to hold his gaze. “Okay,” I say, just barely audible. And then the tears start falling. Almost instinctively, I move forward to greet them as I find myself wrapped in Peeta’s arms. “Katniss,” he whispers, his hands caressing my hair softly. Tears wrack my body; I jerk with every sob that escapes. Peeta is trying to hush me, but I’m soon aware that he’s crying, too. We’re both broken. The girl and boy who were on fire, who burned so intensely they turned their very lives to ashes.

**  
**We stay like this for some time. The workers continue around us, but leave us be. It isn’t until the sun has started to set, casting an orange glow on us, that we break apart. His face is red and puffy from the crying; I suppose mine is as well. Peeta gingerly climbs to his feet, then holds a hand out to help me to my own. “Come on,” he says, and we walk back home together.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two is finally here!! It's long, loooong overdue. I wrote the first chapter of this fic, and I'm finally continuing it. Thank you to everyone who has patiently waited for this update. I hope the long length at least partially makes up for it! 
> 
> Huge thanks to feeding_geese/bigbigbigday006 and notanislander for their help with this!

I wake, tangled up in my sheets. At first, I’m not sure what time of day it is--morning or night, until it dawns on me that I’m not sitting in total darkness. The sun has at least come up. But I can’t say if it’s actually morning, or maybe I’ve slept all the way into the afternoon. I was so tired by the time I got home last night, that as I crawled into bed and slipped into sleep, the last thought I remember having was that I felt as though I could sleep for three days straight.

 

Maybe I did.

 

I glance at the clock on the nightstand, and see that it’s only 8 in the morning. It’s probably safe to say that I haven’t slept through more than one day. No, as I become acclimated to waking life, I realize there’s no way Greasy Sae would allow me to sleep that long. Probably she’d be afraid I’d finally succeeded in offing myself, and wake me up just to make sure I was still alive. Speaking of, she should be here soon. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, and pull on a robe before heading downstairs.

 

I hear the sound of the front door unlocking just as I reach the kitchen. As the door opens, I smooth my hair, which is probably in quite a state after last night, and brace myself for the morning’s greetings. A second later, Greasy Sae’s toothy smile lights up the room, with her granddaughter following closely at her heels. I wait, but no one else follows.

 

Peeta isn’t here.

 

“It’s just the two of you?” I blurt out, without even considering if it’s a good idea. I haven’t given them so much of a greeting, aside from a curt nod of the head.

 

But Greasy Sae doesn’t look the least bit surprised by my question. “There was no answer when I knocked at Peeta’s door this morning,” she says.

 

I nod, and try to focus on the groceries she’s unpacking on my kitchen counter. Eggs and bacon, and lard for cooking. All things we never had access to before the war, except maybe on very rare, special occasions. But now that the Capitol has fallen, they must be shipping them out to the districts.

 

I wonder- _where is he?_

 

That wasn’t what I was wondering. I was about to ask how they transport the eggs. But now that the thought has broken through, it’s all I can do to keep from thinking about it. Why didn’t Peeta come over this morning? Why didn’t he answer the door? My stomach sinks as I realize what the implications are. It means that either he didn’t want to see me, or he’s fallen into one of his episodes. _Or both._

 

“Katniss?” Greasy Sae’s voice cuts through my thoughts, bringing me back to this room again. She’s looking at me with concerned eyes. I can’t stand being looked at like that. “What?” I snap, a little more harshly than I intended. But if my tone offended Greasy Sae, she does a good job of masking it.

 

“I asked if you would like a helping of eggs.”

 

“Oh… sure,” I say, my voice flat. She scoops the yellowish goop onto my plate. I just pick at it, wondering where she learned to cook like this, since I can’t remember her ever serving eggs at the Hob. Who knows, though? My memory seems to have a lot of holes in it lately.

 

I’m just about to finally take a bite, when a noise makes my ears perk up. It can’t be the door, could it? No… no, I’m not imagining it. Somebody is turning my doorknob, and entering the house. My head snaps in the direction as familiar heavy footsteps start down the hallways. When he finally enters the room, something heavy seems to lift from my entire being.

 

“Peeta, you made it,” Greasy Sae says cheerfully. “Would you like some breakfast?”

 

“Sure,” he says with a glance in my direction as he takes a seat opposite me. “Yeah. I made it.”

 

“I stopped by your house earlier, but you didn’t answer,” Sae continues. “Everything all right?”

 

“Yeah. Just… I went to check on Haymitch.”

 

For a minute, only the sound of the food cooking fills the air. “Oh?” Sae asks, before the silence goes on too long. “How is he? I’ve barely seen him since he’s returned home.”

 

Peeta just shakes his head. “He’s… Haymitch,” is all he says.

 

That seems like quite a statement for Peeta to make, all things considered. “Are you sure you can remember what Haymitch is like?” Then I cringe, because even I can hear how insulting, how defensive my tone comes across. Even if I didn’t mean for it to.

 

“Yeah,” Peeta says simply, and stares down at his food. He won’t raise his eyes to meet mine, and he doesn’t say anything else. I want to say something more, but I’m not sure what, and besides, I’m not entirely comfortable with the thought of saying in front of Greasy Sae. I’m reminded of all those times in the arena, when all I wanted was to draw the curtains shut on what should be a private moment, meant only for Peeta and me. I guess it doesn’t matter who my audience is, whether it’s one or two people, or the entire nation of Panem. Some things just aren’t meant to be shared.

 

We just sit there like that, in awkward silence, for the remainder of breakfast. I keep willing Greasy Sae to take her granddaughter and just leave already. But instead, she takes her time, cleaning up the dishes, putting things away, even sweeping the floor and wiping down the counters. She doesn’t usually take this long! Does she? I don’t think so. I don’t remember her ever taking this long before, anyway. It figures she’d choose to do so right now.

 

“Well, I better get going,” Peeta finally says after some time. I turn to stare at him, wanting to scream, wanting to demand that he stay while everyone else leaves. I’m actually tempted to do this. Not that it would be the first time I’ve had an outburst. Would anyone even be surprised at this point? But I manage to keep it together while I watch Peeta scoot out of his chair, and without a second glance at me, nod goodbye to Greasy Sae and let himself out my front door.

 

“Well, we better get going too, I guess,” Greasy Sae says. Finally! It took her long enough. Only why did she have to wait until after Peeta left?! I missed my opportunity because of her! I try to calm myself. She’s been doing me a favor by coming over here to look after me. I should be grateful. Except I never wanted it. I had wanted to die, to be freed from this life. But I’m still here. And I need answers.

 

I realize the answers lie across the way, inside two houses of Victor’s Village. But do I have what it takes to go over there? No, I don’t think I do. So after Greasy Sae and her granddaughter finally bid me goodbye, I just settle down in my usual spot in my chair, and stare off into space. Eventually, I hear Buttercup creep into the room. To my surprise, he jumps up into my lap, and I begin stroking his fur absently. It’s amazing how some things change, I think to myself. _If only she could see us now._

 

The thought hits me like a brick wall. Suddenly, I feel as though I’m about to hyperventilate. If I don’t do something, I will. I push Buttercup off my lap and leap to my feet, pacing around the room and trying desperately to push those thoughts away. I can’t- I just can’t think about it. But I can’t help it--the images force their way into my mind. Not just memories of that day, but other ones. Worse ones, gruesome images that make me want to scream, they’re so horrible.

 

I can only think of one thing that might make the thoughts come to a halt. It’s too early, but I’ll do anything to make this nightmare end. It’s bad enough to have to deal with them at night, when I’m asleep, but during the day as well? I have to make them stop. I stumble over to the kitchen, where I know there were a few bottles hidden away from when we stocked up after Ripper was forced out of business. Even that memory is too painful to bear.  With shaking hands, I pull the doors to the cabinet open, and twist open the bottle. Shove it up to my lips and force myself to take a sip. I cringe as it goes down my throat, just as hot as the last time I tried the stuff.

 

It burns. How does Haymitch manage?Even still, I find myself taking another sip, and another, until I can feel it beginning to work. I don’t want to get as drunk as I did last time; just enough to make this awful attack go away. It works. As awful as this stuff is, I can feel the anxiety begin to dull. So does the world around it. That’s enough. Somewhere in my jumbled mind, I recall how awful I felt the next morning, back when I tried it when the Quarter Quell was announced. The vomiting. The furious headache. I’m trying to make the misery go away, not invite a whole new set of problems. Slowly, carefully, I twist the cap back on the bottle and scoot it away from me. I already know I drank more than I meant to. The room spins around me. I just need to sit down for a minute. Yes, just for a minute. Holding onto furniture, walls, or anything solid, I pull myself to the sofa where I fell asleep a few nights prior, and lower myself down.

 

_Katniss._

 

My eyes barely open a crack. Everything is blurry. “ _Katniss,”_ he says again, only it doesn’t make sense. He’s not here. He stayed behind in the Capitol while I was exiled back to 12.

 

With a groan, I manage to open my eyes completely, and the world comes painfully back into focus. I wasn’t hallucinating Peeta’s voice, he’s actually here, kneeling before me, peering into my face with a look of deep concern. I remember now, how he came home. For whatever reason, my brain froze in the memory of his absence while I was sleeping, but he’s here now.

 

“What time is it?” I murmur, stretching my arms over my head. I also remember.

 

“Noon,” he tells me as he rises to his feet and frowns down at me.

 

“Noon?” I ask, surprised.

 

“Yeah,” he says. “How long have you been asleep?”

 

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I- “ And it takes me another moment before I remember the way I passed out this morning after drinking the white liquor I had stashed away for Haymitch all those months ago, before the bombing, before the Quell. When Prim was still here. And so was my mother. But my headache is threatening to return, so I just shake my head. “I guess I fell asleep after breakfast.”

 

“You’ve been drinking,” he says, and it’s not a question, but an observation, and I can tell it’s no use to argue it with him.

 

“Maybe I have,” I shrug, looking down at the floor. I feel defensive.

 

“After breakfast?” He asks. His blue eyes roam over me, taking in every bit of me, studying me. I shift in his gaze, feeling uncomfortable.

 

“Why not?” I spit out, angry. “What else is there for me to do now, Peeta?” And there it is. The truth. Because now that I have served my use as the Mockingjay, have failed to keep the districts from rebelling for Snow, refused to die like a good little tribute is supposed to, and have even failed the sister who my entire existence revolved around protecting, what purpose is there in my living now?

 

Peeta doesn’t even respond at first, instead just staring at me for a long time. Then he sinks down into the overstuffed chair across from me, and buries his head in his hands. “I’m sorry, Katniss,” his muffled voice, obstructed by his hands, says to me. Now it’s my turn to sit and stare in silence. This wasn’t the direction I expected this to go in, and now I’m not really sure what is going on.

 

At last, he straightens, and lifts those blue eyes of his up to look into mine. He offers me a sad smile. “I can’t really judge you too much,” he tells me. “When I was in the hospital after the bomb… sometimes I thought I was a little too attached to the morphling.”

 

I let out a short bark of a laugh. Peeta raises an eyebrow at this. “Join the club,” I say. Then, of course, I have to tell him about Johanna back in 13, and how even I was hooked onto it both when I was being held in the training center, and after being shot when I was in 2. I stop before I tell him about the memory that resurfaced under that haze of morphling, though.

 

Peeta just shakes his head. “Dr. Aurelius, he’s the one who helped me get beyond it. Helped me learn new ways to cope, healthier ways. Have you answered his calls yet?”

 

I’m silent.

 

“I know it’s uncomfortable,” he continues. “But… he helped me a lot. That’s why I think you should give him a shot.” When I still don’t answer, he just climbs to his feet with a sigh, and starts for the door.

 

“I talked to him yesterday.” It comes out in a rush of jumbled words.

 

Peeta stops in his tracks, and turns around to face me, an eyebrow raised. “What was that?”

 

Now I sigh. “I said… I talked to him yesterday.”

 

“Oh.” He stands there awkwardly, probably searching for the right thing to do next. “That’s… good. That’s great. He really helped me a lot.”

 

“Yeah,” I nod half-heartedly.

 

“Well… see you, Katniss.” And he’s gone. He sure seems to come and go. I wonder what it is he does, anyway? What’s Peeta even really like now, after everything he’s been through? I have to say, I expected something different. I’m not sure what it was that I was expecting, exactly. Something a lot more like how he was back in 13, I guess. More hijacked episodes. But he seems mellow. Nothing like that tortured boy I knew underground. I think back to when I first saw him a couple days ago. The first thing I noticed was how his eyes had lost that clouded, tortured look. It makes me wonder, really wonder for the first time, what it was he was doing all that time in the Capitol, before he came back here.

 

Maybe he’s right. If he was able to make such a remarkable change in Peeta, then maybe Dr. Aurelius can help me. But that thought, the very idea of ever coming back from this… this shell that I’ve become, seems laughably impossible. Surely I’m beyond help at this point. That’s why they sent me here. Because there’s nothing anyone can do for me. Better to discard me to the destroyed district, where no one will have to deal with me.

 

_Except Peeta._

 

Not Haymitch, though, apparently. I guess he’s too busy dealing with his own demons. He’s better off without me now, anyway. Maybe Haymitch can go find some kind of happiness of his own, now that this is all over. If he can ever put the bottle down long enough to even do that. I wrap a blanket tightly around my shoulders, and settle back against the backrest of the sofa. What would Haymitch’s life be like, if he let himself move on from here? Would he find himself a wife, and settle down to have children? No. Somehow, I know that isn’t in the cards for him. Just like I know there’s no way I’ll ever have kids, especially after all I’ve gone through, I know Haymitch will be the same way. He’s known too much loss. Just like me.

 

For a long time, I just sit there in silence, staring off into space as I watch the dust motes spiraling in the air around me. I have a throbbing headache now from the liquor, but somehow it doesn’t seem important enough to do anything about. _Peeta wasted his time,_ I think. I’m no good coming home to. Since he’s recovering so much better, then he would be better off someplace where he could thrive. He shouldn’t be quarantined in 12 with me. Haymitch too, for that matter. He was given the lovely little task of watching over me now that we’re home, but I know what that really means. He’s my guardian. Because not even my own mother wants anything to do with me anymore. That’s how much I ruin other people's lives. He should leave, too, with Peeta, and maybe it’s not too late for them both to find something better for themselves. Something away from me.

 

The shrill ring of the phone interrupts my thoughts. At first, I just sit there, willing whoever is on the other end to hang up. But I suspect I know who it is. And Peeta’s parting words eat away at me until finally I give in, and move from my spot to answer.

 

“Hello,” I mumble into the receiver.

 

“Katniss. Hello,” Dr. Aurelius’s low voice crackles through the line, confirming my suspicion.

 

“Hi,” I mutter back.

 

There’s a brief pause. “How are you doing today, Katniss?” His tone is kind. Nothing about it suggests pity or comes across as patronizing.

 

“Okay,” I say back in a flat voice. Even I’m not convinced by it.

 

Another pause. “That’s good,” he says. A third pause, only this one goes on for an exceeding amount of time. Finally, he speaks again. “Well, Katniss… is there anything you’d like to talk about today?”

 

Like what? The fact that everyone I know would be better off if I wasn’t in their lives? He’d have a field day with that. “Not really,” I tell him.

 

A beat. Then he asks, “Well, what do you like best about being back in 12?”

 

“I don’t know,” I snap back without thinking. What… what on earth kind of a question is that?

 

“I suppose you like being back home where things are familiar,” he says.

 

“I guess.”

 

“And you must like having your friends and neighbors around you again.”

 

“Sure.” That’s a joke. Outside of Prim and my mother, I had exactly three friends.

 

On and on it goes like this, with Dr. Aurelius asking me little questions that don’t quite probe too deeply, and then answering them for me when I refuse to cooperate.

 

“All right, Katniss,” he says at last, with an air of finality to his voice. “I’ll call again in a couple of days.”

 

“Whaa- “ I’m surprised to hear there’s going to be a lapse of a few days, considering he’s called every day so far. I glance at the calendar on the wall, trying to place when two days from now will be, and realize that today is Friday. This catches me off guard--it’s Friday, really? I didn’t even realize that it was. Now that I think about it, I haven’t paid any attention to the days of the week at all. All I really know is that it’s the first half of April.

 

“Have a good weekend,” Dr. Aurelius tells me. “But don’t hesitate to call me if you need to,” he adds.

 

“Okay,” I mumble, and hang up the phone. Then I just sit there, losing track of time again, until I hear a knock at the door. My eyes dart to the clock--it isn’t quite time for Greasy Sae to arrive for the next meal, so I don’t know who this is. Better not to do anything then, I decide.

 

“Katniss,” I hear Peeta’s muffled voice come from the other side. Oh. I guess I’d better answer. I climb to my feet, and shuffle over to the door, fixing Peeta with a blank stare as I open it. “Hey,” I mutter.

 

“Hey,” he says back. He tries to act nonchalant, but I can tell he’s looking me over, examining me for anymore signs that I’ve been drinking, or anything else I may or may not be doing. “Um, I wanted to work on something, and wanted to know if it would be alright if I worked on it over here. It’s kind of lonely over at my house,” he says, and gives me an unconvincing smile.

 

“Okay,” I nod, and move to the side to let him through.

 

He stops in the middle of the foyer and looks around like he’s trying to figure something out. Then he turns around, his blue eyes looking quizzical. “Um, where do you want me to work?” he asks.

 

“Oh,” I mumble as I shut the door tight. So that’s what he was trying to figure out. “Um, where ever you want, I guess. I think you have the same layout in your house. Just work where you would work.”

 

“Okay,” he nods, and moves for the study.

 

“Not there!” It comes out so quickly, I barely have time to register that I said it at all. Peeta stops, and turns to search my face. I can tell he wants to ask me why, but I can’t have that. I can’t explain about that time President Snow sat in there and, in one brief meeting, took my life away from me forever. Or at least, what little there was left of it, after putting me through the Games.

 

Peeta decides not to push it. “Okay,” he says slowly, and nods his head. “Then I’ll work somewhere else.”

 

“Yeah. That’d be good,” I agree. Then, because I feel bad, I offer the kitchen table as a work place.

 

“Sure,” he smiles. “That might be the best place for my little project, anyways.”

 

I follow him down the hallway, curiosity getting the better of me. “What are you working on?”

 

“Just ideas right now, really,” he says. “Dr. Aurelius said he thought it would be good for me to have a project.”

 

“Ideas for what?” I ask.

 

He gives a rueful smile. “What to do with the rest of my life. Now that the Capitol is done with me.”

 

I frown, knowing the feeling all too well. “Nothing! There’s nothing left for either of us to do!” I want to shout back at him, feeling my insides twist in anger. But for whatever reason, I can’t find it within me to voice this thought to him. So instead, I just watch him quietly as he settles down at the table, opening a notebook that he brought with him and placing it carefully before him. What’s he going to do? What is he planning to put in it? I glance up at him, expecting to find him deep in concentration, and instead find his blue eyes trained on me as though he’s trying to figure something out.

 

“What?” I ask.

 

He shakes his head. “Nothing,” he mutters.

 

For a very long moment, we just sit there, staring at each other. I look at Peeta’s eyes, really, truly study them. This is the first time I’ve looked at them since he returned. Since before he returned. My memory is so cloudy that all I really remember about that day with the primroses was that they looked more normal than they had since I lost him in the Quell arena. Now that I’m closer, I can have a better look. Yes, they look far more like that Peeta, the Peeta from before the hijacking. The same gentleness that used to be there has returned. Only now it’s mixed with something else. Pain. Weariness. Confusion? What exactly is going on in his mind right now? My mind starts to form some sort of thought, some hypothesis. Then it’s gone, before it even has a chance to fully form.

 

“Katniss,” he says again, stronger this time; louder. His voice cuts through my thoughts and brings me out of the memories of humid jungle trees and dark, cramped underground passages, and brings me back to the present. I can’t help blinking--somehow, the light in here seems brighter than it did while I was lost in thought. My eyes, though still locked on his, come back to focus on the real Peeta who sits before me. I raise my eyebrows, questioning. What’s on his mind?

 

“Um,” he begins, knitting his brows together thoughtfully. “Are you, um, just going to sit there and watch?”’

 

“What?” I ask, more than a little confused since that wasn’t what I expected out of him at all.

 

“Just, well… “ he looks past me, trying to put together what he’s trying to say. “I mean, I know it’s your house, and I kind of invited myself over,” he stammers. “But, I don’t know if I can really work if you’re just, you know, watching me….”

 

“What?” I snap back, feeling peeved.

 

“I’m sorry,” he offers. He does look truly apologetic, but at this point I don’t really care.

 

“It’s my kitchen,” I say snidely to him.

 

“I- I realize that,” he says carefully. He purses his lips and looks thoughtful. I just glare at him, making sure it’s the most heated gaze I can manage. Which is quite a bit.

 

He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “Maybe I should just go back home,” he mutters.

 

I don’t answer right away. I’m still not done glaring at him. But that’s when I see his nostrils flare, and in an instant something twists inside me. Fear. Guilt. _He’s going to have an attack,_ I think to myself as I tense up, not sure what to do. I make a quick assessment of my exits if he tries anything. Then I wonder if there would really even be any reason to bother. I’d deserve it if he killed me. He would be better off without me anyway. The whole world would.

 

Feeling gutted, I back down from my hostile stance. “No. You’re right,” I admit, pushing back in my chair and rising to my feet. I busy myself in the kitchen, moving things around and picking them up, but I’m not really doing much of anything. Periodically, I check over my shoulder to see how Peeta is doing. At first, he just sat there watching me, which seems a little ironic given his previous complaints. But maybe he didn’t know what to make of my sudden change in mood. But after a couple minutes, his head bows over his notebook, and I see him start to work.

 

Curious, I attempt straining my neck to see over his shoulder. But I can’t tell what he’s working on, other than a few blurry lines. I give up, wondering if Peeta himself really even knows what he’s working on yet.

 

He stays, drawing away in his notebook, until Greasy Sae shows up for dinner. Than he shoves it away and offers to help her cook. Then dinner is served, and the next thing I know, my house is empty once more.

 

But the next morning, he comes over again, looking sheepish as he asks if it’s okay to let him work here again. I allow it. This repeats several days in a row. At first, I try to find a way to be busy, so he won’t think I’m staring. After a while, though, I just give up. Putting up such a front takes too much energy, and what does Peeta care anyway, as long as I’m not watching him? So I just sit on the sofa in the other room, indulging in my own favorite way to pass the days since returning to 12. Staring into nothingness. Wondering why I’m even still alive.

 

One day, Peeta drops his pencil suddenly, and tosses his head back, giving out an exasperated sigh. I watch him, curious, a little worried, until finally he lifts his head back up and looks over at me. “I need to go for a walk,” he says.

 

I nod. He gets up, walks to the front hallway. But I don’t hear the sound of the door opening, or his heavy tread as it disappears down the porch steps. Instead, after a minute of pure silence, I hear him slowly shuffle back into the room where I’m sitting.

 

“Would you mind going?” He asks, looking a little nervous. I drop my eyes, thinking about it. I’m tired. I don’t have much energy to go anywhere. But somewhere deep inside of me, I can tell that Peeta isn’t just asking for the sake of having company. This is another walk he needs my help with. So I muster up the energy to move, to put my boots on and follow him outside, and down the trail that leads us out of Victor's Village.

 

We’re silent at first, as we head down the road that used to take us to the town square. I’m still feeling a little dizzy, though being outside in the fresh air is perking me up a little bit. Not that I would ever admit that out loud.

 

After a while, Peeta finally speaks. “I’m thinking of opening the bakery again,” he tells me.

 

I look over at him, curious, waiting for further explanation.

 

He just shrugs his shoulders. “It’s all I really know how to do. Even in 13, baking was the first memory that was easiest for me to recover.”

 

We walk a little further in complete silence. I don’t ask any questions, but eventually he continues with his explanation. “It’s harder than I thought it would be, though,” he tells me. He turns and looks at me at last, waiting for my opinion.

 

“Why is it hard?” I ask. My voice sounds so small out here, without the walls to reflect the sound.

 

He turns away from me again, looking down the road, his hands stuffed in his pockets despite the warm, humid air. “I’m not sure,” he tells me. “For starters, I guess it’s because I’ve never built a bakery before.”

 

That’s true. Peeta was born into his family’s bakery. That building had been standing there for decades. It was probably there before any of our parents were even born. I imagine it would be hard to build a new one from scratch, especially if you’ve never done anything like that before. But somehow, I suspect that isn’t the only reason it’s been hard for Peeta to make plans to rebuild.

 

He confirms my thought after another long stretch of silence. “And it’s hard to think about the memories,” he tells me.

 

“I know,” I hear myself mumble. Because I definitely understand how painful it is to recall those things which we’ll never get back, gone forever, existing only in our memories. And even then, they won’t last. Sometimes I find I can’t remember certain details, like the last morning Prim and I spent together before I left with Star Squad for the Capitol. When this happens, I begin to panic. Those thoughts are so precious, and losing them would be like losing her, and everyone else all over again.

 

I’m so lost in my thoughts, that I barely notice when Peeta stops, tripping over a piece of rubble lying in the middle of my path. The abrupt interruption irritates me, and I kick the debris hard out of my way as I stand up. I’m ready to admonish Peeta for not warning me or something, when I notice he’s barely paying attention to me, his eyes locked on something that lies ahead of us. Turning, I realize we’re right in the heart of what used to be the center of town. Ahead of us lies all the remains of District 12.

 

They’ve made progress since I first returned to 12. Or rather, since I first walked through the district, since there was a whole lost time between my return and that walk that I’m still not sure the length of. It looks cleaner, though there is still plenty for the crews to pick up. I wonder if they’ve focused more on rescuing the bodies of the fallen citizens, and that’s why more hasn’t been done to clear the remains of the buildings. I was so out of it, I didn’t even notice if the hole in the Meadow has been covered yet. Or maybe we didn’t even walk past it. Maybe Peeta took us a completely different way this time. I really don’t know.

 

It seems like ages before either one of us moves. We both remain frozen in our spots, just staring out over the scene, each of us taking it in. It’s never easy being here. Even with our walk out here weeks prior, it stirred up emotions in both of us. I’m still recovering. And I think Peeta is, too. So what reason could he possibly have for bringing us here again? I want to ask him this, but the question won’t come out. So instead, I simply wait for his lead.

 

When it comes, he steps forward lightly, carefully working his way through the remains of our old life. I follow reluctantly, having half a mind to just wait here while Peeta looks for whatever it is he’s searching for out here. But I know he needs my help, even if I can’t figure out what help that may be. I’m not even sure it was a good idea, bringing me out here with him. I can’t do much. I’m too much of a wreck myself.

 

We pick our way over the debris, trying not to look too closely at whatever it is under our feet. I hope it’s only building remains at this point, but who could be sure? It seems impossible that they already got everyone out of here by now. But it’s such a grotesque thought, I push it away as soon as it surfaces. If I’m going to do this with Peeta, I can’t think about these things right now.

 

He finally stops, right where I suspect he would. At the leftover rubble of the bakery. “What do you hope to find?” I want to ask him, but still the words won’t come. I’m not sure he even knows. All he does is stand and stares. I try to keep as still as possible, not wanting to disturb whatever is going through his mind. And also not wanting to disturb the ghosts that lie all around us. I want to disappear completely into the scenery. If I did, would it somehow amend for the fact that I killed every last soul who breathed their last on this spot?

 

Peeta slowly lowers to his knees, and picks at something lying just beneath him. He turns it over in his scarred hands, inspecting it for who knows what.

 

“What are you doing?” I finally blurt out. My voice sounds so harsh against the quiet reverence that seems to belie this place. I cringe, hearing it bounce around, echoing off the few walls that still remain standing.

 

Peeta turns and gives me a cold look. In his eyes, I see something that puts me on edge, something that reminds me of those times in 13 when he accused me of not even being human. Then it’s gone. He doesn’t give me an answer, though. Just stares a second longer, then turns back to his search. He creeps forward, picking items up here and there and looking them over. Most of what he picks up is unidentifiable, charred and turned black after the bombs set them on fire. But I don’t dare question him again. I’m not even sure it’s safe for me to be here by this point. But I still don’t leave.

 

It’s on the far end of the bakery, on what would have been its entrance, that he finally finds success. I watch as he pulls out a long piece of board, that actually seems relatively intact despite the destruction it’s gone through. Peeta excitedly lays it down on a pile that comes up to this waist, and with the sleeve of his shirt, begins to brush it off. Then he snatches his arm away quickly, almost as if whatever it is he’s found has burned him.

 

What could it be? I doubt anything here would still be hot from the fire and the bombs. No, judging by the way he’s staring at it now, it’s something else that’s caused Peeta to react to it like this.

 

He looks lost; I’m starting to get worried. So, despite my better judgement, I begin to carefully work my way over to him, being careful to tread as quietly as I can over the loose debris that used to make up the bakery. I come right up next to him, being sure to approach him from a vantage point where he’ll be sure to see me approach, because I can’t take any chances. But even despite this, he doesn’t make any sound, any movement, give any indication that he knows I’m there at all.

 

I’m not sure what I should do. Or if I should even do anything at all. While I stand there, trying to figure it out, my eyes drop to the piece of board that Peeta is so transfixed on. I can see that something is written on it, and it looks familiar. Is that- I strain my neck, trying to get a better view. Yes, it is.

 

It’s the sign from the Mellarks’ bakery.

 

It made it through somehow. I’m not sure how, but it did. In clear letters, it still plainly reads ‘Mellark Family Bakery.’ It’s barely burned at all. It’s amazing that it survived, especially considering the whole rest of the building did not.

 

“Is-” I begin, my voice croaking. My throat is dry. I clear it and speak louder. “Is that the sign from… ?”

 

Peeta slowly looks up at me. And that’s when I know I’m in trouble. That cold look in his eyes--I know it too well, and it isn’t just grief over his lost family. He is the hunter, and his prey is me. And there’s no one here to help. I don’t even have my bow with me, if I really needed it. Could I even shoot him at this point, even if I had to?

 

“This is your fault.” His voice is low. Deadly. Made of steel, and every bit as cold.

 

I just stand there, frozen in my spot. I don’t even know what to tell him. Do I deny it? Do I tell him yes, it is my fault that they died, and everyone else in 12 too, even if I personally didn’t drop the bombs that did this to them?

 

“Peeta… “ It comes out in a whisper. Pleading, for mercy I know I don’t deserve.

 

“It’s your fault!” And now it comes out as a roar. He moves towards me, and without a second thought, I’m in flight, moving as fast as I possibly can over the junkyard that is our old home, tripping over things in my way and then picking myself up as fast as I possibly can so I’m moving again. Something warm trickles down my leg, and I’m fairly certain I’ve cut myself and am now bleeding. But I don’t dare stop to examine it. On and on I go, not even thinking about what I’m doing, where I’m going. My legs are taking me where I need to go, and all I can do is trust them.

 

Eventually the debris and clearings give way to trees, and finally I begin to feel safe. I’ve made it to my woods, and while I know there’s nothing to stop him from coming after me, I at least have the advantage over him out here. He never came out here when the district was still standing. He’d be lost in a second. But I don’t stop running until I’m deep in the woods, and feel certain he’ll never find me here.

 

Hidden under a thick layer of trees, I come to a stop, and allow myself to collapse onto the forest floor. I curl into a ball, and allow whatever emotions are coming to work their way out of me. Now that I’m no longer moving, I realize how little business I had running like that at all. I’m still far too weak, and now my heart races not just from the fear, but from over exertion as well. Really, it’s amazing I made it this far without stopping. The adrenaline must have fueled me.

 

It takes some time, but the tears finally come. Then I start hyperventilating. It’s too much. Too much! Why did he come back?! And why did they send me back, too? They should have just executed me after I killed Coin. I deserve it. I’ve manage to get most of the people I’ve ever met killed, and ruined the lives of everyone who is left. They should have killed me when they had the chance.

 

Or maybe that’s what’s happening now. Maybe that’s why they let Peeta come back here. To finish the job off. It’s not like it’s all that strange of an idea. Isn’t it exactly what Coin intended when she sent him to join the Star Squad?

 

_Don’t be ridiculous,_ a small voice in my mind argues. He’s had therapy since then, and besides, there are far more effective ways to kill me if that’s what they had in mind. But I’m so angry, so sad, so miserable, that all I can do is cling to the thought that this is my punishment for hurting everyone I’ve ever loved. By siccing one of them on me.

 

On and on and on this goes. The tears don’t seem to end. I begin wailing, screaming, pounding the ground in rage. Every last horrible emotion that’s built up in the last year and a half, the last two years, finally comes out. I thought I was an empty shell, that there was nothing left inside for me to even feel. But was I ever wrong.

 

Why? Why did Peeta’s episode set me off this way? I knew it had to be coming, was even expecting it. So why am I reacting this violently now that it’s happened? I don’t know. I’m not sure I’ll ever know. So here, once again, the forest becomes my solace. The only place I can be myself.

 

When at last I have nothing more inside me, waiting to come out, I lie on my side and breathe deeply. It’s so peaceful here, now that I’m not disturbing the silence. Maybe I will just stay here forever. Maybe I can meld with the leaves and the plants covering the forest floor, and never have to go back to civilization again. It would be better that way. Yes, I think I will just stay here forever.

 

I know that isn’t really an option, though. Because as the sun sets, and I can see the light growing dimmer, I know I have to leave. The wild dogs and other animals will come out, and I don’t have anything to protect myself. I doubt I have the strength to climb a tree. I need to go home. As much as I don’t want to, I know that I have to.

 

Carefully, I climb to my feet. I have to go slow, because after exerting myself so much from my crying, I’ve spent a lot of energy and feel a little dizzy. If I move too fast, I feel like I might fall back down. Once I am on my feet again, I start slowly. It’d help if I had something to eat. I realize I haven’t eaten since breakfast this morning.

 

What time is it? Judging by the way the light hits the earth, it must be around 4. I know Greasy Sae won’t have been by yet. I didn’t run that far into the woods, so it shouldn’t take me too long to get home, either. If I time it right, maybe I can get there just as she arrives.

 

But I don’t want to do that. Going home means finding out what happened to Peeta. Now that I’m starting to feel like myself again, I begin to feel guilty for just taking off like I did. But what was I supposed to do? At the time, running felt like my only option. But somehow, I know that wasn’t true.

 

I start to wonder where he is, what’s happened to him. Did he make it home? Is he safe? Or is he still milling about the remnants of the old town square? It scares me to even think about it… but I know I have to go check if he’s still there.

 

The remaining walk through the woods is silent. And I don’t encounter much of anyone once I do reach the outskirts of what used to be 12. I see a worker here and there, still working on clearing out the mess. I pass by the Meadow, which is still wide open. So they’re still digging out what they can find of the bodies. I’m careful to avert my eyes before I catch sight of what’s inside.

 

Peeta isn’t at the town square when I get there. He isn’t anywhere. I check the perimeter of the area, just to be sure. Nothing.

 

I don’t know what else to do now, besides go home. Hopefully, Peeta went home himself. Do I knock on the door to his house, find out? I have to get something to eat first, if I’m going to do that. Besides, what if he’s still in the middle of his episode, and I need to get away quickly? Yes, returning home is the right choice. I’m only too relieved when I reach my own front steps, and let myself in through the front door, locking it tightly after me. Then I settle in on my couch, and wait. Greasy Sae won’t have come by yet; I’ve beat her here.

 

That’s fine. The walk home took a lot out of me, anyway.

 

I lie down in my usual spot, preparing to get some rest before she arrives and I have to help prepare dinner. But not even five minutes later, there’s a knock on my front door. She’s early?

 

But it’s not Greasy Sae standing there with her granddaughter when I go to open the door. It’s one of the last people I expected to see standing there, with his frown on his face as it takes me in. I haven’t seen him in weeks. Not since the first day I returned to 12. I wasn’t even sure he was still alive.

 

It’s Haymitch.

 

Immediately, I feel defensive. “What?” I snap at him.

 

He raises an eyebrow. “That’s a fine greeting after not seeing each other for some time.”

 

“Yeah, well, who’s fault is that?” I shoot back. He has some nerve saying this to me.

 

He seems to concede, because he doesn’t press the point any further. “I have something you’ve been looking for,” he tells me instead.

 

Now it’s my turn to raise an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

 

“A certain someone I think you left to fend for himself when he needed your help,” he says, crossly

 

If I was defensive before, it’s nothing to how I feel now. Haymitch isn’t being fair. He knows what Peeta can be like when he enters an episode, how dangerous he can be to me in particular. He was there! He was there all those times in 13 when Peeta, or the hijacked version of him, was threatening my life.

 

At the same time, though, I feel relieved to know Peeta made it back safely, and evidently safe in Haymitch’s care. “Where is he?” I ask, still sounding angry. But I don’t have the energy to do much more fighting. So I decide to focus on Peeta instead.

 

“He’s at his house,” Haymitch tells me. “He’s asleep.”

 

Without another word, I shut the door to my house behind me, and push past Haymitch, down the stairs of the front porch, and cut across the lawns over to Peeta’s house. Haymitch follows. The door to Peeta’s house isn’t locked when I get there; of course it isn’t, if Haymitch was the last person to leave, how would he have locked it? Besides, there’s no one here to steal anything, anyways. So I let myself into the quiet house, and head towards the staircase.

 

It’s only after I climb the stairs that I stop, because I realize I’m not sure which one is Peeta’s room. I’ve been to his house before, but always stayed downstairs when I’d come over. The floorplan to his house is exactly the same as it is mine, and Haymitch’s, because actually all the houses in Victor’s Village are exactly the same. So I can only assume he would take the master bedroom, just as my mother and Prim had insisted I do in my own house.

 

It’s on quiet feet that I creep down the hall to what I know to be the master suite. As silently as I can, I gently push the door open and peer in. I was right, this is Peeta’s room. And there he is, asleep in his bed. Though judging by the way he thrashes around, it’s not a very restful sleep. It actually catches me off guard to see him like this. I think back to that time on the train during the Victory Tour, when I asked him why I never knew when he was having a nightmare. He told me then that he always came to, paralyzed with fear. It makes me wonder what’s happened now. Is it the tracker jacker venom that caused the change? Or… it’s almost too much to think.

 

Is this what he’s like when I’m not there to calm him down?

 

For a second, I’m overwhelmed by the urge to crawl in with him, to wrap my arms around him, just as he did for me all those times before. Then the whole thing--the memories, the way my brain becomes confused by this thought given everything that’s happened today, in the last year--makes me feel dizzy. I have to lean against the frame of the door to steady myself until I feel strong enough to stand again.

 

When I make it back downstairs, Haymitch is waiting for me. He motions me to the living room. I want to stay standing, to keep some sort of leverage with whatever Haymitch is about to unleash on me, because I can tell he’s mad. But I’m so weak still, I have to sit down.

  


“What, Haymitch?” I snap at him, because I really just want to get this over with.

 

He just frowns at me. “You know that boy came back here for you, right?” He asks, cutting right to the chase.

 

I don’t respond, instead fixating on a spot on the carpet directly in front of me.

 

Haymitch, not one to let things go, continues. “You just left him out there to fend for himself!” His voice is rising, but I can tell he’s trying not to get too loud. He doesn’t want to wake Peeta.

 

But his words get me. I was already feeling defensive, but this pushes me over the edge. “He wanted to hurt me!” I snarl back at him.

 

“You don’t know that! When Thom found him, he was just milling around, confused,” Haymitch says.

 

“You know he’s been programmed to kill me!” I almost scream, barely catching myself from being too loud, not really sure if I even care if I do.

 

To my utter surprise, Haymitch actually relents. “I do know,” he admits. He sighs, and settles down on a chair across from me. He leans back, and I can tell he wishes he had a bottle right now. I wonder when the last time he had a drink was. An hour ago? Half an hour ago? I have no delusions that he’s been hiding himself away in that house of his, drinking himself to oblivion. But can I really blame him?

 

“You’re right to be concerned,” he tells me. “What happened to him is still unknown in a lot of ways. But, girl, you have to understand how much therapy that boy has been through. Aurelius wouldn’t even let him leave his facility until he felt satisfied he could manage in public without going off on a murderous rampage every time something set him off!”

 

I do realize this. Well, most of it, anyway, though maybe not the finer details. But Peeta basically told me as much his first morning back, when I caught him planting the primrose bushes.

 

“He needs us now, sweetheart,” Haymitch says. “You and me both.”

 

“Well that’s awfully noble of you. And where were you, exactly, when I came home and you abandoned me in that house for a month?” Maybe it’s too harsh, but I just can’t help the anger rising up in me now. I’ve been an empty shell of a person since those bombs took my sister’s life--they may as well have taken mine that day. Everyone has left me now. Even my own mother. And Haymitch just sat there in his house, getting drunk.

 

I can see the anger in his face at the sting of my words. But he manages to keep his anger down. “I’m here now, aren’t I?” he asks gruffly.

 

I just cross my arms, and look away.

 

“All right… you’re right,” he admits.

 

Looking back, I take him in, really examining him for the first time since I’ve seen him today. Since I’ve returned to 12, even. His face is puffy, there are bags and dark circles under his eyes. His belly has grown again. I can tell I’m right about the drinking. It makes me wonder what state his house really is in. I remember how awful it was before I convinced him to let Hazelle clean it for pay. But there is no Hazelle now, which means his house is probably something rivaling those days from before.

 

“Look… Katniss… “ Haymitch starts out, and it’s clear whatever it is he’s about to say is the kind of heartfelt thing that’s always made him uncomfortable. “You and the kid have both been given a second chance here. And a lot of people died for you to have that chance. Don’t let their deaths be in vain.” I just stare at him as he climbs to his feet, losing balance as he does so, and catching himself on the armrest of his chair. He stumbles back to the door, pulling it open. He looks over his shoulder on the way out. “You two need each other.”

 

With that, the door closes behind him, and I’m left alone in the silence of Peeta’s house. Haymitch’s words turn over in my head as I try to let them sink in. I’m not sure what to do now. Should I stay here, wait for Peeta to wake up? Or should I go home to my own house? Surely Greasy Sae will be here soon, if she hasn’t stopped by already. Should I find her, tell her that we’re having dinner at Peeta’s house tonight? Since I can’t decide, I just stay put instead.

 

In the silence, I watch as the light grows dimmer. Dust motes dance in the fading light. It’s my only form of entertainment, since I have no plan. I’ve just about decided to get up, and go check Peeta’s kitchen, when there’s a knock at the door. I pause, wondering who it is, and if I should even answer the door, since this isn’t my house. I must take too long trying to decide, because a knock comes a second time, this time much louder.

 

I decide to answer it. Even if it’s not my house, Peeta isn’t awake to get the door. And I guess I’m now his designated caregiver, though just the thought of that is enough to make me want to laugh. But not quite.

 

Greasy Sae stands at the door with her granddaughter. I shouldn’t be surprised to see her, but for some reason I am. I guess Haymitch told her where we were, or she just figured out on her own that this would be the next place to look when it turned out neither of us were at my house.

 

“I ran into Haymitch out on the path,” she explains. So it was him who told her. “He told me where to find you.”

 

I nod, moving over to let her in. This probably means she knows what’s happened. “Peeta’s upstairs,” I tell her as they pass through the door.

 

Greasy Sae nods, and a serious look crosses her face. I was right about her knowing. But she does a good job keeping her concern in check. “Best to let him sleep for now,” she says. “We can always rouse him with some of this stew I’ll be cooking you tonight.”

 

Despite everything, I can’t help allowing myself a grin. Something about Greasy Sae’s stew brings back happy memories of my home before the Games, and before the war. For a brief second, I’m the old me again, coming in to trade at the Hob after a hunt, or maybe even briefly after school. Then it’s gone, and I’m the broken girl with no family once more.

 

I follow her into the kitchen, but I don’t make any pretense of even trying to help her with the cooking. Instead, I plant myself down at Peeta’s kitchen table, and preoccupy myself with watching over her granddaughter. Peeta’s house doesn’t have the yarn for knitting that my house does, so it’s better that I try to keep her out of trouble. If Greasy Sae has any objections to this, she doesn’t say so.

 

There’s silence as she works, and for a long while the only sounds are the splatters of her stew simmering, and the noises her granddaughter makes while she plays. After a while, though, I notice her taking a few sideways glances at me. Finally, she speaks.

 

“He’s going to be okay, you know, honey.”

 

I look up at her, at a loss for words.

 

“He just needs his sleep,” she continues, matter-of-fact, as though there were no possible way it could turn out any other way. As if Peeta had befallen a horrible cold he needed to sleep off, instead of being hijacked and tortured at the hands of the Capitol.

 

“Maybe not,” I mutter.

 

She shakes her head. “He will.”

 

“But how can you be sure?” I counter, pulling myself up straight to watch her.

 

“That boy is tougher than he looks,” she tells me. “You both are. He survived the Games, didn’t he?”

 

I sit back in my chair. “Yeah,” I admit.

 

“And everything they did to him during the war. I know it was bad, honey, but you don’t realize how much therapy he’s been through since yo- since Coin died.”

 

Well that’s interesting. I notice that she stopped herself from admitting I murdered President Coin. But that isn’t what gets my attention. What does is that comment she made, the one about the therapy she knows Peeta has gone through. How does she know that? Something inside me suspects I was right about my earlier theory of her being on someone’s payroll. How else could you explain her knowing about this? Her having access to this information?

 

“How do you know about that?” I ask. “About Peeta, I mean.” Obviously she saw me assassinate Coin on live television, along with the rest of the country.

 

She doesn’t even bat an eyelash. “You know they’ve given me instructions to watch over you two, girl,” she says in that no-nonsense tone she can take up. “I have to report to that Plutarch fellow weekly.”

 

Ugh. It figures it would be him.

 

We settle down for dinner. Barely another word is uttered between us. I keep my eyes mostly on my plate, picking at my meal after I’ve eaten the little I can stomach. Greasy Sae attends to her granddaughter. Until I glance up, and find her eyes glued to a place somewhere behind me.

 

I freeze. Without turning, I’m pretty sure I already know what she’s looking at. Or rather, who she’s looking at.

 

“You’re up,” she says brightly. She pushes the chair back and rises, crossing over behind me. I finally dare to turn around. Memories flash back to that time in the 13 cafeteria, when the guards let him eat his lunch with us, and he accused me of all kinds of things. Is he going to do that now? I’m not sure what I would do if he did.

 

But when I finally turn to face him, it’s not the sullen Peeta from that day months ago that I find standing there. Instead, he just looks confused, like he’s trying to understand why we’re all eating dinner at his table, while he was asleep upstairs.

 

Greasy Sae gently places one hand on his back, and uses her other one to grasp his arm. She leads him carefully over to the table, making comments about how hungry he must be, and how she’ll fix him up a plate right away. She sits him next to me, which I’m not at all sure is a good idea, but he doesn’t seem like he’s about to attack or anything, so I relax a little.

 

As she places him in his chair, then goes to get his dinner, I can feel his blue eyes on me. It takes me a minute to work up the courage before I slowly turn and meet them. I don’t see any anger, fear, or distrust reflected in them. That’s a relief right there. But I can tell he’s piecing things together.

 

“I had an episode,” he says at last. I can’t tell if it’s a question or a statement, so I just nod and look back at my food.

 

There’s a beat of silence. “Katniss,” he gasps my name, and I can tell the memories from earlier are hitting him. Without another word, he jumps to his feet.

 

“Peeta?” Greasy Sae asks, turning around to see what all the commotion is.

 

“I can’t be near her!” He practically yells. My stomach twists; so the episode hasn’t ended after all. Or maybe he’s just realizing the truth at last.

 

“What do you mean?” she asks him in a steady voice. I can tell she’s trying to keep her calm so as not to upset him further, but it doesn’t work. Peeta is out the door before we can stop him.

 

For a minute, we just stand there in his wake, looking at each other. Then, without even a second though, I’m on my feet too, following him into the living room. I’m prepared to climb his stairs to his room, or even head outside to follow him to, I don’t know, maybe the site of the old bakery. But instead I find him no further than his living room, sitting on the edge of a chair with his head buried in his hands.

 

“Peeta?” I whisper it at first, then clear my throat and speak louder. “Peeta?”

 

He looks up at me, horrified. “You should go.” he tells me, his voice low and broken.

 

Haymitch’s conversation comes back to me in this moment. The part where he told me that Peeta needs us. Peeta needs me.

 

“I’m just going to hurt you,” he says. “Real or not real?”

 

I’m quiet as I mull it over in my mind. This is a question that has no real answer, because I don’t know what he might do in the future. He might. Then again, Haymitch told me Aurelius wouldn’t even let him leave until he was sure it would be safe.

 

“Not… not real,” I tell him. It may well be a lie, but somehow I know it’s what he needs me to say.

 

So, just to prove it, I sit down, right next to him, and wrap my arms around him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! I know, I'm sorry that this story takes forever to be updated. This chapter has actually been finished since November (I worked on it for NaNoWriMo), but it was the April/Spring challenge on loveinpanem (over at Tumblr) that inspired me to get this edited and post. 
> 
> Huge thank you to AmelinaZenitram (deinde-prandium on Tumblr), and feeding_geese (bigbigbigday006 on Tumblr) for cleaning up my writing, pre-reading, and providing advice!

It makes no difference to me that it’s my birthday. As far as I’m concerned, I shouldn’t ever have had one again. I’m not entirely sure I should have had one to begin with. If I hadn’t been born on this day eighteen years ago, how different would things be? I can’t help thinking of all the lives that would still be preserved today. Would Prim still be around? Would she even have been born if I hadn’t, triggering that sequence of events?

 

Maybe it would have been just as well. Then she never would have had a life to lose in the first place.

 

The others insist on celebrating my birthday. Well, by that, I mostly mean Greasy Sae. No doubt, she’s acting on orders given to her by Plutarch himself, who probably would have made a nation-wide event of the whole thing if I weren’t so unpopular for ratings right now. No, the Mockingjay who murdered the wrong president is not the right person to be making a fuss over at this point. That’s fine by me. The last thing I want is any more attention.

 

Haymitch, of course, can barely be bothered. Though I will admit that I have been seeing more of him lately than I had before. At least he’s leaving his house again. I still haven’t been over there to see what kind of state it’s in. Oh well. Maybe I shouldn’t judge. My house would probably be every bit as bad right now if Plutarch weren’t paying Sae to make sure that I’m not doing anything rash, or just plain stupid.

 

Peeta seems more excited for my birthday, though that may only be since he’s been entrusted with the task of baking my cake. Things have been a little tense between us since his episode a few weeks ago, but we’ve still both made efforts to try and cross that barrier. Regardless of how I feel about celebrating, I think Peeta baking my cake will do him some good, so I don’t try to fight it.

 

At least somebody will get something out of this whole affair.

 

It’s not really anymore exciting of a day than any of the others since I’ve been back, which suits me just fine. It starts out with our usual breakfast get-together, but with a special treat.

 

“Cheese buns?” Peeta asks, holding a bag up as he steps inside. “They’re Katniss’s favorite,” he informs Sae and her granddaughter.

 

For a second, I just stare at the bag. “You remember?” I murmur, more to myself than to him.

 

“So that is real,” he says. “I kind of wasn’t sure.”

 

“Yeah. It is,” I admit. “But you shouldn’t have.”

 

He shrugs. “Why not?”

 

Why not? Well… the truth is, there is no real good reason why not. Except maybe the old standby, that I don’t deserve it.

 

“It’s for your birthday,” he continues. “I didn’t get you anything.”

 

“I didn’t expect you to,” I say.

 

“I know,” he says. “But it helps me to bake. Consider it a part of my rehabilitation, letting me make these for you.”

 

Of all things, a smile begins to creep across my face. Because as weird as it might be, knowing this does somehow make it easier to accept his gift. I take it from him with a nod, and head into the kitchen to put them on a plate. Peeta follows.

 

Sae enthusiastically praises him before they start in on their buns, but as I take one of my own, I can’t help looking over at him, examining him. As if sensing this act, his eyes rise up to meet mine, and he offers me a small smile. Something rushes through me. What is it? There’s a warmth to it, but also something bittersweet as well.

 

As I bite in, I’m pleased to discover that he also hasn’t forgotten the recipe for these things. They taste exactly like they did before he was hijacked.

 

The rest of the day between breakfast and evening is business as usual. I find it in me to get out and go hunting for a little bit. I don’t come up with much, just a couple of squirrels. Then I feel tired, and head home again. Maybe we can have them for dinner, if I have the energy to skin them once I get back.

 

It’s when I approach my home that things start to get aggravating. Greasy Sae and her granddaughter have already returned, with Peeta in tow. They insist on throwing me a small party, and have begun decorating.

 

“We wanted it to be a surprise,” Sae tells me.

 

“But I don’t want a party,” I tell her.

 

Sae fixes me with a smile. “You’ve overcome a lot to live this long,” she says. “You deserve a party.” Her voice is gentle, but firm.

 

I want to fight her on it, but I’m still so drained from hunting that I don’t have it in me. Besides, I realize, how big of a party could it really be? Few people are even in town to invite. I go over the potential list. Greasy Sae and her granddaughter, obviously. And Peeta. Maybe Haymitch. Thom? I don’t really know many others of the recovery crew, and not many people have started to return to 12 just yet.

 

Besides, I doubt any of them will have much energy to celebrate, either.

 

I don’t care. I really don’t. But I decide to go ahead and let her do it. What’s the worst that could happen?

 

I’m proven wrong a few hours later, after the party finally starts. I’m miserable. I don’t want to be here at all. Actually, what I want is for everybody to get out of my house and leave me alone. No. Come to think of it, I still wouldn’t want to be here, even then. Because what’s the point? I’m awful. I hate myself. I shouldn’t be alive.

 

“You shouldn’t be here,” I blurt out in the middle of the celebration.

 

There’s a pause in the air as everyone looks at me. I can tell that no one even knows what to say. They probably agree. They shouldn’t be here. _I_ shouldn’t be here. I should be in jail. In some executioner’s block or something.

 

“Well we are, girl. So shut up and deal with it.” Haymitch growls.

 

I feel an anger burn inside of me at his comment. I know I don’t deserve any kind of gentle treatment. But it doesn’t make it any easier to actually hear it from someone else.

 

Sae gives Haymitch a look, then turns back to me. In a much gentler tone, she asks, “Why do you say that, dear?”

 

I’m still looking Haymitch over as she asks this. He just looks back at me, and we sit there in silence for a long moment. So it’s still the case, is it? That Haymitch really is like me. I see it in his grey eyes, that he knows what’s going on inside my mind.

 

“Because I killed everyone,” I spit out. “They’re all dead because of me!” I turn to Thom. “That huge hole in the Meadow. You wouldn’t have to be digging that if it weren’t for me.”

 

“That’s not true, Katniss- “ he tries, but I cut him off at the pass.

 

“It is true,” I protest. “Because I refused to follow orders. That got everyone killed. Isn’t it?”

 

There’s a dead silence as I wait for anyone in the room to answer. They all look frozen to their spots. None of them have any idea what to say. It’s because they know I’m right, they have to know it. But at the same time… at the same time, a part of me is hurt that no one rushes to comfort me. To tell me it’s not true. I mean, I know I’m horrible, but do they have to rub it in like this? Haymitch, I never expected to comfort me, but what about Sae? Peeta?

 

When no one does respond, I turn on my heel and run out of the room, leaving the stunned party behind me. I don’t really go far--just into the kitchen - but it’s enough just to be away from all the eyes and expectations and judgements. Suddenly depleted of energy, I sink into a chair at the kitchen table, bury my head in my arms on the tabletop, and feel myself begin to cry.

 

I don’t know how much time passes while I sit here like this. Honestly, time doesn’t seem to have much meaning for me anymore. Is it a couple minutes? An hour? Has an entire night passed since I left, and everyone has gone home? And that door I hear opening, is that Greasy Sae coming in to cook the breakfast I know she only comes by to make because she’s paid to do so?

 

It is Sae, but when I glance up, I see it’s only been about five minutes since my outburst. She sits down in a chair besides me, and wraps her arms around me.

 

“Don’t!” I protest.

 

“Why not?” She looks at me, confused.

 

“You don’t need to pretend anymore, Sae,” I tell her. “I know you’re only doing this because the Capitol hired you to look after me. Just stop.”

 

I can feel her muscles freeze in her arms at my words. But she doesn’t remove her arms from their embrace. Instead, if anything, she tightens them around me. Pulls me to her while she rocks with me. I don’t want her here in my space. Do I? No. I don’t know. She shouldn’t be here, anyways, because I don’t deserve it. She shouldn’t be so close to someone as awful as me! But I don’t have the strength to push her away or tell her this, even though I know that I should.

 

“You poor thing,” she says softly.

 

“I deserved it all!” And that’s when the tears begin to fall.

 

Greasy Sae just rocks me in silence for a long, long time, letting me cry in her arms. She shouldn’t - I know she shouldn’t - and the right thing to do would be for me to make her stop, to let her go help someone who truly deserves to be comforted. Because they didn’t ruin the lives of everyone in this nation the way I did. Because they weren’t so blinded by vengeance, they let their own sister get blown to bits.

 

But I don’t do it. I can’t. Because now that the tears have started, I can’t make them stop. And all I want is this comfort, to feel safe in someone’s arms, even though I doubt I’ll ever truly feel safe ever again. How could I, after everything? I want this comfort, even though I know I don’t deserve it. Greasy Sae makes soothing noises and pats my hair as she lets me cry myself out.

 

“You’ve been through so much, dear,” she tells me after I have finally calmed down. “And you didn’t deserve a single bit of it.”

 

“I did!” I mean to yell it, but it only comes out as a sob.

 

“No,” she says evenly. “You were just a child. You’re still just a child, who’s been through too many grown up things. You and Peeta both.”

 

I mull over her words while I ride out this current wave of sobs as she rocks me gently. Is she right? I won’t deny that a huge part of me finds solace, finds vindication in her words. I was only 16 when I went into the Games for the first time. For all my survival knowledge, and efforts to keep my family alive, I was still a child.

 

What about after I came out? I was a murderer. It’s safe to admit that much now, at least. Now that doing so doesn’t lead to accusations of treason, to whippings and executions. I was a murderer. But only because I had no choice in the matter. Did I? I could have died in that arena and spared everyone all of this. I wish I had. I wish I had died, and then Prim would still be alive, and Finnick would still be alive, and all those people whose lives were lost in that hospital would be alive, and… my mind begins reeling at the mere thought of everyone who would still be alive right now if I had just died instead in the arena.

 

All I ever wanted was to save my sister.

 

And protect Peeta.

 

At least I managed to do that much. But was that really anything noble? Is Peeta happy that I kept him alive in the arena, after everything he’s been through? Or does he feel he’d be better off dead, too? I remember Finnick’s comment when the took us away on the hovercraft after the clock arena. _I wish they were all dead, and we were too. It would be best._ I couldn’t think of a good response then, and I certainly can’t think of one now. Except Finnick actually is dead now. Just the thought makes another round of sobs well up in my chest. It seems to come from someplace deep inside me, some lonely, desolate place that knows nothing but anguish and heartbreak lie around every corner for the rest of my life.

 

If Finnick was right, that it’s for the best that he’s gone, then why do I feel this way? Why can’t I find peace in knowing he’s someplace better? But no. He’s gone. He’s wherever Prim is. Where Rue is, and Boggs, the rest of Star Squad. My father. The victims of the hospital. The fallen tributes of the Hunger Games. Maybe even Coin and Snow.

 

There’s a horrible thought. What if they’re all in the same place, after all that? But maybe not. Maybe they’re gone forever. In fact, they probably are. It’s too much to hope there might be something else after this. Life after death was never a subject talked about much in 12, but it did come up once in awhile. Those who had lost someone--which admittedly was most of us, be it from the Games, or starvation, or the coal mines--often hung on to the archaic belief. I suppose it gave them something to hold on to, when the darkest moments of loss hit them. After I lost my father, I didn’t know what I believed. It wasn’t until Rue that I realized a big part of me wanted it to be true. That I wanted a place with no Games, no war to exist, after what she had been put through in this miserable excuse for a life here.  Even when I sang her to sleep, I know I was hoping she was heading for a place like the Meadow in the song I was singing.

 

But I know now, that it’s too much to hope such a place does exist. I think when we’re gone, we probably are really gone. And I find myself spiraling down that path of despair again.

 

“Katniss.” A voice reaches me, tethering me back to the present. I feel a pair of hands on either shoulder, holding me firmly. “Katniss,” it says again. Except it sounds different this time.

 

I blink, and I’m back in the room with Greasy Sae. And now, Peeta has joined us. That explains why the voice sounded different the second time. One of them must have been his. I shake my head to clear it. It’s jarring to be back, but comforting, too.

 

“I think maybe what she needs is a good night’s sleep,” I hear Sae tell him. Well, yeah. Wasn’t that what I had been trying to tell them from the start? It would be better to just leave me alone all together.

 

“Will she be okay?” I hear Peeta ask. The answer to that is no. Obviously I won’t be okay. And he isn’t okay, either. Wasn’t he just holed up in his own house because of an episode a few weeks ago?

 

“With time,” I hear her respond gently. “The first year is the hardest. You’ll see. All the firsts without them, and, well- you know.”

 

The house begins to empty as the few “friends” that had come over for my birthday take their leave. Sae leaves me curled on the couch to bid them farewell, a task I know should fall on me. But I’m too weak to do it.

 

Finally, she returns to the room. I wonder if she’s the only one left, until I pick up on an all too familiar tread behind her. So Peeta is still here, too.

 

“We should get her up to bed,” I hear her tell him. If he responds, I don’t hear it. It’s not a good idea, though. Because if I fall asleep, I know the nightmares will hit. I haven’t slept well since before the Quell. I glance over to Peeta, who watches me with sad, understanding blue eyes. He knows. Does he remember? How he used to hold me at night, how his arms were the only thing that could make the nightmares go away?

 

Suddenly I’m overwhelmed by the want to ask him to stay here tonight. If I’m forced to go to bed, I want him to crawl in next to me, to make the nightmares leave like he did before. But just as suddenly, I remember what’s happening. How he was hijacked. And asking him to sleep in the same bed as me is a dangerous idea. The truth is, I’m still scared to be in the same room as him, even if it does seem he’s worked through the worst of the tracker jacker venom.

 

“I’m fine,” I tell them firmly. They both look at me in surprise; it’s the first I’ve spoken in close to an hour. I guess they both thought I had checked out for the night, at least mentally. I kind of had. But I can’t stand sitting here, listening to them plan to make me do something I know would just make me miserable. I’d rather they leave, and I be left to my own devices.

 

“Katniss-” Sae tries, but I just shake my head.

 

“I’m fine,” I repeat, shaking my head. “I don’t want to go to bed.”

 

“Are you sure?” she asks. “It might make you feel better.”

 

“No. It won’t.” It’s Peeta who answers, not me. We both look over at him, surprised. Sae, surely, because she didn’t expect him to side with me on this issue. But I know, somehow, that this means he remembers.

 

“Well…all right,” she finally agrees. “If that’s what you really want, Katniss.” I nod. Greasy Sae promises she’ll be back in the morning for breakfast, right on schedule. Peeta just watches silently. But just before they turn away, as I’m closing the door, his eye catches with mine. He gives me a final look before he follows.

 

I’m alone, at last, in this big, empty house. Just as I had asked for. It’s just me and the ghosts now. For a second, I’m tempted to call Peeta and Greasy Sae back here. I don’t, though. I might as well get used to it being this way. I’ll be living this way for whatever short amount of my life remains. I return to my seat on my couch, and collapse.

 

I wake up in the middle of the night, screaming over my latest nightmare. Something awful, with Snow and Coin, and watching my little sister be blown to pieces again. I feel more than I’ve felt for a long time. Anger, hatred, sadness. Despair. Hopelessness. I don’t know what to do. My heart is beating hard, and I pant as I try to orient myself to the here and the now, my eye adjusting to the darkness and catching sight of every minor thing in the process that I’m convinced is another monster that’s been sent to take me out. Great. I knew I was crazy. Did I really need the extra proof?

 

When I finally catch my breath, I slump onto my back and stare off into the darkness. I’m not exactly thinking about anything in particular. In fact, it’s the opposite. I wish I could turn off my thoughts and all my emotions, and never deal with any of it ever again. Life would be better that way.

 

My mind begins to wander. It’s been so, so long since I’ve had a truly good night’s sleep. Even before the Games started, I had had a very hard time staying asleep ever since my father died, and I became haunted by nightmares of him trapped in the mines. I begin to wonder how I ever had one to begin with. I know the answer to that between the Games. It was Peeta.

 

Peeta. What’s he doing right now? Is he asleep? Does he sleep better now that half his memory has been wiped? Does he remember the nightmares of the arena as well as I do? Something tells me he probably doesn’t sleep all that well, though. I remember that night, in the sewer below the Capitol streets before the mutt attack, when I caught him lying awake on my watch. It wasn’t until I talked to him, encouraging him to get some rest, that he finally fell asleep.

 

I also know he is haunted by what happened in the arena. Which means he does have memories of some kind. Bad memories. The kind that do keep you up at night. The real question for him, of course, is whether or not they are real or not real. I guess for the question at hand, it doesn’t really matter. A lack of sleep is a lack of sleep. Still, I know Peeta stayed in the Capitol because he was receiving therapy. He seems better now than he ever did during the siege on the city, or especially back in 13. All that treatment has to have accounted for something, right? Maybe he does sleep better. Maybe I should follow up on that therapy. Call Dr. Aurelius tomorrow. It hasn’t helped so far, but have I really given it a chance?

 

Then again, would it really do me any good? At this point, it seems impossible to ever come back from this feeling of desolation. I should have just died in that same explosion at the City Center, or in the sewer attack, or in either arena, or any of the other number of times I could have died, but didn’t seem able to. I just can’t seem to die.

 

On and on it goes, my mind going in circles. I think I drift off to sleep once or twice, but snap back awake almost immediately. Which is fine. I don’t think I want to go back to sleep now, anyway.

 

After the slow, painful wake of night, I drag myself to the bathroom and splash some water on my face and smooth my hair back, an attempt to at least somewhat freshen up before the usual breakfast crew arrives. I know they’re going to be looking for signs I’m unstable after what happened last night, and I don’t really want to give them any further cause to watch me. Even though the truth is that they’re right. I just don’t want them to know it.

 

When they do arrive, they look surprised when they see I’m already up and waiting for them. Sae gives me a once over, then looks downright pleased, as though somehow I’ve proved her right. Good. Maybe she’ll leave me alone for the time being. At least until I know what I’m going to do.

 

We eat breakfast, and they leave. Another notch in the old routine. I hear a knock at the door later in the morning. It’s Peeta, standing there with a bag of something in his hands.

 

“Do you feel better?” he asks as he follows me to the kitchen.

 

For a second, I think about it. Not because I’m not sure - I _know_ I don’t feel better - but because I don’t know what I should tell him. At last, I decide to just go with the truth. “No,” I admit.

 

“I didn’t think so.”

 

Immediately, I feel defensive again. “I don’t want to hear about it,” I snap.

 

“Hear about what?” He asks, looking confused.

 

“About what you and Sae were talking about last night,” I explain. “About going to bed and getting better and stuff. She doesn’t understand, Peeta!”

 

“Yeah,” he agrees. It surprises me, because it’s not what I expected. Peeta is pretty big on the belief that we can get better, when he’s not being sidetracked with an episode. I look at him now, seeking an explanation. He just shrugs. “She doesn’t understand, what it’s like to go through what we’ve been through.”

 

Well, that’s the truth. No one understand what it’s like to have gone through all this. No one except for Peeta and myself. Suddenly, I find myself with the urge to launch forward into his arms. But it doesn’t seem appropriate somehow.

 

“I think she is right about one thing, though,” he continues. “This first year is going to be hard. It was hard after the Games, too. Our first Games, I mean,” he says. “And now we have a lot more we have to figure out.” He catches my gaze and holds it. Then his eyes flit away. “But I think… I think we need each other, Katniss.”

 

“What do you mean?” I ask. He’s right, I can just feel it. But I want to hear his reasoning out loud for myself.

 

“What do I mean? I mean exactly what we just said. We’re the only ones who have been through what the other has gone through… for the most part,” he explains. “And… and there are things… gaps in my memory I could really use your help on.”

 

I don’t respond, just stare off to some point behind him. I knew this was the case. I remember thinking it when the Real or Not Real game was first devised, that most of what haunts Peeta will remain up to me to clear up. But I honestly don’t know if I can give Peeta the information he wants to hear. Can I? How could I?

 

He’s watching me now, those blue eyes of his trained on me, taking in my reaction to this. I don’t know what to tell him. In truth, I don’t know what to think myself. “I… don’t think I can,” I whisper.

 

I can tell he’s disappointed by this answer. But he does his best to mask it. “Just little things,” he says, clearly trying to backpedal. “That’s all I meant.”

 

When he leaves shortly after, I watch him from the window as he crosses the lawn back to his own house. He really has come a long way since our days in 13. Even since the day of the execution, the last time I saw him before he returned to 12. He’s strong again. That limp is still there, but some of the steadfastness seems to have returned. He seems more and more like the boy I knew before. Like the Boy with the Bread, who warded off my nightmares in the dark of night. But he’s different now, too. He seems so much older now. Of course; what we’ve been through has aged us both about a thousand years. Yet, at the same time, he seems somehow more vulnerable.

 

Something familiar twists inside me, and then I feel guilty. That feels familiar, too. I think about Gale, kissing that other pair of lips in 2. I think about my sister, who will never get to kiss a pair of lips. At least, not as far as I know. I don’t think she was kissing anyone before… before she was taken. It’s not fair, it’s not right that she never got that chance, and I did, when it was never something I had originally wanted.

 

But deep somewhere inside of me, as I watch him cross the lawn, I know how much I liked kissing Peeta.

  
  
  


“Peeta?” I call, poking my head in through his front door. It’s rude, I’ll admit, but I tried knocking first. When there was no answer, panic began to set in. What if he’s in trouble? What if he’s having an episode, and needs help? What if… what if an unforeseen complication of the tracker jacker venom caused some sort of health issue? What if he’s dead? It’s paranoia, I know this on some level, but the anxiety takes over before I even have a chance to combat it. Fortunately for me, Peeta’s front door is unlocked when I try it, though that also worries me as well.

 

“Katniss?” I hear his voice come drifting down the hallway.

 

“Yeah,” I answer, feeling a little more secure as I close the door behind me, making sure it’s locked this time. Then I unlock it, because if Peeta does have another episode, I might need someone to get in here fast to help me. Better to not take any chances.

 

“In here,” he says. I follow the direction the voice came from. I find Peeta in his study, which it appears he has actually turned into an art studio. He sits behind a large canvas, studying it intensely, only taking a second to glance up at me and raise his eyebrows in greeting.

 

“Hey,” I say, standing in the doorway of the study, watching him. It’s weird being in here. Our houses are almost exactly the same--every house in Victor’s Village is, for that matter. But while mine remains relatively untouched now, Peeta has strewn paintings and supplies all over the place. And in the middle of it all, he perches on a stool, paintbrush in hand, as he plans his next stroke.

 

“Hey,” he says. “Did you knock?”

 

“Yeah. Sorry, you didn’t answer and I panicked.”

 

“No, it’s okay,” he’s quick to assure me. “I’m sorry I didn’t hear it, that’s all. I would have let you in myself.”

 

“It’s okay,” I say. “Um, it looks like you’re busy, though. I can come back later.”

 

He shakes his head, and finally tears his eyes away from the canvas so that he’s looking at me. “No. Stay. What brings you over here?” he asks with a smile.

 

Now I pause. I don’t really know how to answer. Even I don’t know what force prompted me to come over here. “I just… wanted to see what you were doing,” I mumble, feeling stupid.

 

He motions to the room around him. “Well, now you know.” He smiles at me, making me feel less awkward.

 

“What are you painting?” I ask. I cross the room so I can take a look at his easel. The brown walls, the large, hot oven -- I recognize the bakery immediately. Peeta is painting a scene from his home life before the Games.

 

“It helps,” he tells me. “It helps me to remember them.”

 

I’m quiet as I think about it. I realize I’m not quite sure what part of Peeta’s memory is intact, and what was tampered with in the hijacking. “Do you remember it very well?” I ask, hoping against hope my question won’t somehow offend him, or, worse, trigger something in him. He’s gotten better, but I still never know when he’s going to be set off.

 

“Yeah. They didn’t really mess with the memories from when I was a kid. I still see them pretty clearly. I think.”

 

“Oh. So just the ones that involved me, then,” I say.

 

He looks bad. But he nods. “That’s why I need your help,” he tells me. “Because you can tell me things. You can help me remember what really happened.”

 

I don’t say anything, but I have my qualms about this. Mostly because I can’t help wondering what makes him think he can trust me to tell him the truth if part of his hijacking was not trusting me at all. Or maybe he made enough progress in his therapy that he knows now that he can trust me? Still, a huge part of me suspects it’s for the same reason I was nervous to play Real or Not Real with him during the siege on the Capitol. The things that really bother Peeta, that I know he’s still seeking the answer to, I don’t know if I’m ready to address. Or if I’ll ever be ready to address them. Would there even be a point? There’s not much left of me for Peeta to love. Just a broken shell of a person. A wasteland underneath.

 

“I don’t think I’m the right person,” I say.

 

He looks surprised. “Why not?”

 

“I can’t help you,” I say. “Peeta, there’s not much left of me!” And then I can’t help feeling a little shocked myself. Because I can’t believe I finally said it. Finally said the truth about what I believe to be the case about me.

 

He looks a little stunned himself, as he watches me in the awkward silence that ensues. Then his face softens. “Katniss- “ He begins.

 

“No,” I shake my head. “I don’t want to hear it. What’s the use? You don’t know.”

 

Now he actually looks upset. “You think I don’t know?” He asks. “I lost my family, too, remember? My entire family. And they took my mind on top of that!”

 

I just stare at him, not sure what to say. I feel guilty. In fact, I feel downright insensitive. Of course, Peeta does know exactly what it’s like to go through all of this. I’ve just been wallowing so much in my own misery, that I haven’t been able to see it. “You’re right,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”

 

He shakes his head. “No. And they told me it was your fault, too.”

 

This sends a jolt down my spine, as it begins to dawn on me what’s happening. Something about the tense way he holds himself now, the animosity seeping into his glare... He was forced to revisit his own memories, and that must have set him off. And it’s my own fault. For pushing him too far. How do I stop this before it’s too late? I position myself so I can quickly make a run for the exit if I have to.

 

“Peeta, I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m so sorry,” I breathe, hoping against hope I’ll somehow get through to him. To the real Peeta, who I know is still fighting not to let this hijacked version of him come through again.

 

He shakes his head again. I’m preparing to defend myself if necessary, but his words surprise me. “No, I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m trying- I’m trying to fight it. But- “ he shuts his eyes tight, trying to ward off the false memories.

 

“It’s not real,” I promise him. “It’s not real, Peeta.”

 

“I know,” he gasps. “But- “

 

“Hang on, Peeta.”

 

Peeta grabs onto the back of a chair, taking my words literally as he hands on so tight, his knuckles start going white. He keeps his eyes shut tightly while he takes deep, deep breaths, fighting the battle that wages on in his head. “You’re here to finish the job. To kill me,” he whispers.

 

“Not real,” I whisper back. Then I repeat myself, louder this time. He takes a few more breaths, like he’s trying to convince himself that it’s the truth.

 

“No,” he agrees at last, and a touch of conviction is unmistakable in his voice. “They hurt you just as much.”

 

“Real,” I say, nodding my head vigorously. I feel a round of tears threatening to make their appearance, but I stubbornly force them back. Now is not the time to cry. I have to stay strong.

 

Fortunately, this technique seems to be paying off. Peeta takes several more deep breaths, before he finally opens his eyes. When he does, they’re clear and calm.

 

“Peeta?” I ask, testing the waters, just to be sure it’s safe.

 

He nods his head. “I think it’s passed,” he confirms. “Thanks.”

 

“For what?” I feel like the biggest idiot in the world for even asking, but I have to admit, I’m a little dumbfounded. I feel like all I did was make the problem worse. It was because of me he was triggered in the first place, after all. It’s because of me they even did this to him in the first place.

 

“For staying. For helping. For getting me to grasp onto reality,” he explains. “I think the chair helped.”

 

“Oh. Good,” I say, feeling like a little bit of a fraud. When I told him to hang on, I hadn’t meant it literally. But Peeta seemed to take it that way, and it worked in the end, so does it really even matter?

 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Just like the handcuffs did in Tigris’s basement. They helped me stay focused, and keep a hold on what was real.”

 

I think back, remembering the way he had insisted on putting them back on after I had cleaned his wrists from the blood. He had just suffered an episode then, too, leading to the blood on his wrists. He had made me put them back on, and even slept with them on, chained up and everything. It can’t have been very comfortable, though I can see why the pain would help him hang on to reality a little bit.

 

“You helped. Really,” he smiles at me, and this actually surprises me, how much of a positive effect it has on me.

 

He agrees to going downstairs, and getting a drink from the kitchen. I just sit and study him closely as he moves about the room, trying to make sure he really is okay after that episode. But he seems like he is. “I think that’s the fastest I’ve ever seen you recover,” I finally admit to him.

 

“I think so too,” he nods. “I’ve been working with Dr. Aurelius a lot on developing ways to stop them. I think we might finally be getting somewhere.”

 

“I thought you had done that already,” I reply, confused. I thought that was part of the terms holding him back in the Capitol before the would allow him to return to 12.

 

“We did,” he concedes. “I had to get to a certain level of control before they would even allow me to leave. But I still had a lot of work to do. Still do, really.”

 

“Oh,” I say. It doesn’t seem like enough, but I’m not really sure what else there is to say. “Well, you did look a lot better when you first showed up here. Compared to how you were before, I mean.” And then I kick myself, because out loud, it sounds like one of the meanest, most insensitive things I could possibly say to him. Even if it is true.

 

But Peeta just smiles. “You remember that?” He asks.

 

“Of course I do,” I say, feeling a little taken aback. “Why wouldn’t I remember that?”

 

He shrugs. “You just seemed… a little out of it, when I showed up on your doorstep. Like you were half asleep or something.”

 

I remember that day. “I guess I was, a bit,” I agree. And then, for some reason, I tell him the truth about what had happened that morning. About the dream, about waking from it and hearing his digging, and running out to yell at the dead. How, for a split second after I saw him standing out there, I was convinced it really was a dream, it had to be. Because it was too much to hope that he really had come back. I tell him all of this.

 

There are tears in Peeta’s eyes when I finish. His next words come out in just barely above a whisper. “Real or not real?”

 

I feel a lump in my throat, that he even has to question it. “Real,” I tell him, on the verge of tears myself.

 

He smiles through the tears. “Then I’m glad I came back.”

 

That makes two of us.

  
  
  


I stay up long into the night that night, not even wanting to try and fall asleep. I just know the nightmares will be bad tonight. But I’m also surprised by the amount of energy I have. It’s more than I’ve felt in a long time. My legs carry me down the hall, into the room where my belongings that were brought back from 13 are still sitting. For the first time, I pull them out and really look over them. I hold the spile, so cold in my hand, and am immediately brought back to the Quarter Quell arena. Finnick and Mags, building that hut. The four of us lined up at its entrance, watching the nightly projection of the dead broadcast in the sky. The heat, the humidity, that pink sky entrapping us all. I quickly set it back down, the memories becoming too much for me.

 

Next, I reach for my parents’ wedding photo. Here, alone in the night, I study it for the first time in ages. So much has changed since it was taken. So much has changed since my father was killed. It feels like it was another life completely.

 

I take each item, one by one, examining each and every one of them, dwelling on the specific memories they bring back. Savoring them in my mind, closing my eyes to try and get as clear a picture possible. The bow, my father’s jacket. I even discover Peeta’s pearl, hidden among the other items. I’m not sure how I managed to overlook that when I first looked through these.

 

At last, I get to the book. It’s comforting, looking at this thing again, reading over all the entries that various members of my family have submitted over the years. Particularly when I get to the entries I know belonged to my father. It’s one of the only relics I have left of him, aside from his jacket and a few pictures.

 

Turning the page, the style changes again, and my stomach twists. I know this handwriting, because it is my own. It is the start of the section that I worked on with Peeta. His drawing, so delicately, precisely done, caps off the page. I remember when I found this book during that first walk in 12 after the bombing, when I rescued a few of our belongings. The book fell open, and I had to shut it quickly, because the illustration belonged to Peeta.

 

It’s strange, isn’t it? How much can change in less than a year? I have Peeta back now. It’s everyone else who is gone.

 

I pore through it, trying to keep my mind off all the memories threatening to overtake me, but it’s no use. The tears begin rolling down my cheeks, and the next thing I know, I’m bent over, sobbing. Not that this is anything unusual. I’m either sobbing, or feeling nothing at all. In the end, I sob until I have no energy left for tears, or much of anything else. Then I curl up, right there on the floor, using my father’s jacket as a pillow, and hold the book tight against my chest as I finally fall asleep.

 

I’m still in that same spot when I wake up the next morning. The mid-morning sun streams through the blinds. I’m aware that someone is standing over me.

 

“Katniss,” a voice says gently, and hand shaking me equally as gently on the shoulder. “Wake up.”

 

My eyes open just a crack. Two familiar blue eyes are looking back down on me. Peeta.

 

“Hey.” He smiles when he realizes I’m awake.

 

“Hey,” I say, sitting up. I feel groggy, and my body aches from sleeping on the floor.

 

“Did you sleep here all night?” he asks, glancing down at the jacket I have rolled up into a pillow.

 

I guess I did. The book is still in my arms. Peeta looks down at it, too, and a glimmer of recognition flashes through his eyes.

 

If he remembers all those days we spent working on this book, though, he doesn’t say anything. He just helps me up off the floor, and joins me in the kitchen for breakfast.

 

“Want to go for a walk?” he suggests after the dishes have been cleared, and Greasy Sae and her granddaughter have left for the morning.

 

“Another?” I ask, remembering how well the last one ended.

 

He just shrugs. “Even I need a break from painting sometimes.”

 

While this may be true, my guess is that Peeta has more on his mind than just needing a break from painting. Sure enough, after we’ve left Victor’s Village, he shows his true intentions.

 

“Why were you sleeping on the floor last night?” he asks with a sideways glance.

 

I’m quiet. I don’t really want to answer. Why, I’m not sure, exactly, except that it was a private kind of thing, my own tribute to the people I’ve lost. But it’s Peeta. If there’s anyone I can feel safe sharing that stuff with, I know it’s him.

 

“I was just going through some stuff,” I tell him. “Stuff that was brought back from 13 when they sent me back here.”

 

“LIke what?” He asks, looking genuinely curious. I wonder how much of it he will remember. Some stuff, he probably would have no clue about, like my parents’ wedding photo. Unless he saw it sitting in my house one of the times he came over after our first Games. Actually, knowing Peeta, he probably did pick up on that.

 

“My father’s hunting jacket,” I tell him. He nods; that was an easy one. Everyone in District 12 saw me in that thing. “My bow and arrows. My parents’ wedding photo. The spile from the Quell arena.” I look over at him, wondering if he remembers.

 

“I remember,” he says, as though he was reading my mind. “I saw it in some of the footage they showed me.”

 

I’d forgotten about that. How they’d used footage to turn him against me during the hijacking; and then they had used footage to try and bring him back once he was in the rebel’s hands again.

 

“What about the plant book?” I dare to ask him. “Do you remember that?”

 

He’s slow to respond, just looking out at the horizon for a long time. “I wasn’t sure if I did or not,” he finally confesses. “It was one of those things, where I wasn’t sure it had really happened or if I had just hallucinated it.”

 

“It was real,” I say, noticing the crack in my voice. The idea that Peeta couldn’t tell the plant book had been real makes me very sad. It was the only really normal memory we had together. “We worked on it when my foot was injured.”

 

“We did?” He asks, looking concerned. “Why was your foot injured?”

 

The question is like a punch in the stomach. I have to remind myself that there is still plenty Peeta probably doesn’t remember, even if he has made significant strides in his recovery. But there are still gaps he hasn’t recovered, may not ever recover.

 

On the other hand, I’m not sure if I ever told him the real reason I had hurt my foot that day, even if Peeta had remembered the situation. “I had told you I had slipped on some ice,” I tell him. “But that’s not what really happened.”

 

“It wasn’t?” He looks at me, interested. “Then what did happen?”

 

My first instinct is to hide the truth from him, until I realize that it doesn’t really matter anymore. It’s no longer illegal to go beyond the fence. We’re free. “I had snuck out to the woods,” I tell him. “The Peacekeepers had cracked down on security and were whipping people left and right for insubordination, so I couldn’t tell anyone where I had gone. But they turned the fence back on while I was out, so I climbed a tree to get back in, and landed on my foot when I jumped from the branch. That was how my foot got hurt.”

 

“Wow,” he says. “What made you go out to the woods?”

 

“I’m not sure,” I admit. “I think I just wanted to see it one last time before I said goodbye. It was one of the few things I had left of my father.”

 

He nods. “I wish I had more left to remember my father by,” he says.

 

Once more I’m reminded that for as much as I’ve lost, Peeta has lost just as much. Maybe even more. His entire family is gone. And so are half his memories. “Don’t you have anything?” I ask.

 

“Some stuff. A few pictures. Nothing as nice as your jacket.”

 

We walk in silence for the rest of the way. I don’t really know what else there is to say. I guess the only thing left now is to figure out where we go from here.

 

It’s while I’m looking at the book again later that night that I get the idea. I’m flipping through the pages again, looking at my father’s entries, looking at Peeta’s drawings. When I rescued this book from the house when I came to see the rubble of 12, I couldn’t stand to even look inside its pages. Seeing the memento from Peeta, knowing he was in the hands of President Snow, was too much for me to handle. But at the same time, it was almost comforting, knowing that it was at least there. That I still had a piece of him, aside from the pearl. And the same could be said about my father’s entries.

 

There are still pictures of everybody. Or at least, of most people. Peeta told me himself he has some pictures of his family. Or at least he does of his father, but probably the rest of his family too. And Peeta is still such a good artist. That was something he never lost. I think back to his expert skill that I spotted immediately on that wedding cake he made for Finnick and Annie. If we can’t find photos, then maybe we can draw them.

 

“I had an idea,” I tell Dr. Aurelius the next day, during my weekly appointment with him.

 

“What’s that, Katniss?” He asks, I can tell his interest is piqued. He sounds hopeful. So I tell him about my idea for the book, to put together memories of everyone that’s been lost.

 

“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” he says when I’ve finished. “I think it could help you a lot.”

 

“Really?” I ask, feeling a little proud, as stupid as that may be.

 

“Absolutely,” he says. “Do you have everything you need?”

 

I don’t, I realize. The district is still establishing itself after its destruction. Supplies come by train, and they’re currently at a minimum. Food. Water. Building materials. But other things can be sent, too, if they’re requested. Dr. Aurelius promises that he will see to it himself that my supplies for the book will be sent out on the soonest train possible.

 

I make Peeta go to the train station with me to pick them up. “What did you order?” He asks me, looking curious.

 

“Stuff,” I say mysteriously. “I’ll show you when we get back home.”

 

When we make it back, he sits at the table and watches as I cut open the box and empty its contents on the table. All kinds of stuff is in there. A book cover, blank white pages, binding. Pens and paper and paints, though I’m guessing Peeta already has us covered in that regard. Still, he looks happy to see them. He picks a pack of paints up. “What’s all this for?” He asks me.

 

“I want to make a book,” I tell him. “Sort of like the plant book. Except, I think- I want to put in a page for everyone that we’ve lost.” I peer over the box to try and gauge his reaction. Part of me is nervous he’s going to hate it, I’ll admit. Maybe it’s too stupid. Maybe he won’t want to revisit all those memories in his head. Now that I’ve actually said it out loud, I’m a little afraid it could even be bad for him. What it something about it sets him off, and he has more episodes?

 

But Peeta looks interested. “I like it,” he says. Relief washes over me.

 

“Really?” I ask.

 

“Yeah,” he nods. “It’s a great way to memorialize everyone we’ve lost. And maybe it might even help me recover more memories along the way.”

 

That was one aspect I hadn’t thought of. But now that he brings it up, I realize he’s right. Working on this book dovetails perfectly with his request to help him with his memories. Finally I feel like I might be doing something right.

 

“Okay,” I say as I take a seat. “Who should we start with?”

 

“Isn’t it obvious?” He asks. “We start with Prim.”

 

I hadn’t really thought of that. Or maybe it’s really more that I didn’t want to think of it. Because now that it’s been brought to mind, I’m not sure I can really go through of it. “No,” I shake my head. “I don’t want to.”

 

“You don’t?” Peeta looks a bit surprised.

 

“No. I’m- I’m just not ready. To deal with it yet.” I know I want to do something for her. Prim deserves to be immortalized in whatever way I possibly can, in every way that I possibly can. But the thought of confronting those memories, those thoughts right now, it just feels like too much for me. I know I’ll lose it if I do. And I’ve been losing it a lot already. I’ve got to get a grip, before they ship me off to the Capitol again or something. Though maybe it’s not a bad idea if they do. It worked for Peeta, didn’t it? Still, I know I would rather be here in 12 than back there. Even if it does mean dealing with the ghosts. “I don’t want to do my father yet, either,” I add for good measure.

 

“Okay, got it. No sister, no father,” Peeta ticks them off with his fingers. I’m grateful he doesn’t question my request any further. “I have to admit, I don’t really want to start with anyone in my family yet, either. So who does that leave us?”

 

“Lots. Too many,” I murmur, as the full weight of this project finally begins to sink in. We go over everyone lost, but it’s hard for both of us to make a decision. Peeta suggests Rue, but it’s too close to Prim. I would be set off for sure. I suggest Finnick, but that’s too fresh for us both as well.

 

In the end, we decide to go with Mags. It seems a good enough compromise. We both knew her well enough to have our own memories of her, but neither of us were close enough to her to seriously lose it by working on her page.

 

We set to work. Neither of us have any pictures of Mags, so Peeta draws what he remembers from memory.

 

Greasy Sae arrives with her granddaughter for dinner, surprised to find Peeta already there, and that we’re both hard at work on something. We explain to her what we’re working on.

 

“That’s a wonderful idea,” she tells us. And I can see by the look on her face that she means it.  She looks over our shoulders, and asks whose page we’re working on now.

 

“Mags,” I tell her, not thinking to elaborate further. I’m so engrossed in our work, it takes me a minute to remember that Sae wasn’t in the Quarter Quell with us. She watched it, I’m sure, but does she remember Mags? The way she sacrificed herself by walking straight into the fog so Finnick could get Peeta and me to safety?

 

“I liked her,” Sae says quietly. “I was sad when she sacrificed herself.”

 

She leaves us to our work while she sets to work herself on our dinner, and her granddaughter settles in to play with Buttercup. We take a break to eat once the meal is ready, then Sae does our dishes, and excuses herself and her granddaughter for the evening.

 

Peeta and I work late into the evening. When he’s satisfied, we work on a list of everything we can possibly remember about Mags. It isn’t much, I have to admit, because neither of us knew Mags as well as Finnick did, or Annie.

 

“Maybe we can call Annie tomorrow, and see if she can suggest anything,” Peeta suggests.

 

I agree, saying it sounds like a good idea. I haven’t thought much about Annie since I left the Capitol, which makes me feel awful. Watching Peeta’s hands work as he cleans up the sketch, I try to imagine what it must be like to lose your husband after you’d only just married. I hope she’s doing all right. I wonder if my mother spends very much time with her. Maybe I can ask her to look after her; check up on her sometimes.

 

It’s nearly midnight when I let out a large yawn. “Me too,” Peeta says, looking up from his work. “I’m exhausted. Though I can’t say I really want to go to bed,” he gives me a wry smile.

 

“Because of nightmares?” I ask quietly. I know the feeling all too well.

 

“Yeah,” he says. “I still get them.”

 

I don’t say anything. Instead, all I can do is wonder if he remembers, the way that we used to protect each other from them late at night. I know he mentioned that one time in 13 that he had memories of nights on the train. But the implications then were all wrong. That those nights were about something else, and not about keeping each other’s sanity. Does he remember?

 

“Stay here tonight,” I say, and even I’m surprised when I hear myself suggest it. Is it even a good idea? It doesn’t seem very wise, considering I’d be vulnerable to one of Peeta’s episodes if he were to be triggered for some reason. But the more I think about it, the more I realize I want him to do it. Despite the fear of what might happen. “I have an extra bed.”

 

“Do you think it’s safe?” he asks warily.

 

“I don’t know,” I admit.

 

He shakes his head. “I don’t know, Katniss. I can’t risk hurting you again. I don’t think it’s a good idea. I should probably go home.”

 

I’m silent as I watch him gather what little belonging he brought over with him. He makes a move for the door to leave. “Stay!” It comes out without permission, but I can’t say I’m all that sorry I let it out. It’s the truth about what I want. How I feel.

 

Peeta stops and looks at me, completely unsure of himself. I can tell he’s debating with himself how to respond, if he should listen. If it’s even a good idea, like I know he originally felt it wasn’t. “Katniss- “ He begins, probably to start some sort of argument to convince me why he shouldn’t, why it would be safer for him to go home. So I cut him off at the pass.

 

“Please,” I say, my voice taking on a near pleading tone. “Stay.” _With me._ My mind fills in the blanks on its own, but I can’t say it out loud. Not right now. “Are you really even all that dangerous when you sleep at night?”

 

This seems to get through to him. “I guess not,” he says.

 

“You told me once that you don’t scream or thrash around in your sleep. You just come to, paralyzed with fright.” I’m not even sure why I’m telling him this. But I can tell, by the way he freezes in place, that it’s still the truth.

 

“I did?” he asks.

 

“Yes,” I nod. “But you didn’t have to. I knew you didn’t move in your sleep. Because I was there.”

 

He looks conflicted as he thinks it over. The look on his face is familiar -- it’s the one he gets when he’s trying to decide if a memory is real or not. At last, his body slumps. He gives in. “All right, Katniss,” he says. “I’ll stay here tonight.”

 

I lead him upstairs. Since I’ve been back, I haven’t bothered to go in any of the other rooms on my own. But I know there’s one I won’t be disturbing. Prim’s old room. I can’t bring myself to go in there just yet. There are too many memories, too many ghosts I’m not prepared to deal with. But one of the others should do. I pick one at the far end of the hall, just to give us that extra safety net, should it come to that. But I really don’t think it will.

 

The room is untouched. I pull the covers back on the bed in a pathetic attempt to be hospitable. “The bathroom is just down the hall,” I tell him lamely. As if this isn’t the exact same floor plan that his own house is.

 

“I know,” he says. I just nod again, feeling kind of silly. “Okay. Well… goodnight, I guess,” I say, turning for the door. But just as I’m about to close it as I exit to the hallway, I turn back around and look at him. “Peeta?”

 

“Yeah?” He looks at me, his blue eyes curious.

 

“Thank you. For staying.”

 

His eyes are soft and knowing when he responds. “Always.”


End file.
